


The Flight of John Watson

by JessamyGriffith



Series: Flighted Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Breeding Cycle, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Time, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating Flight, Omega Verse, Other, Wingfic, Winglock, mid-air coitus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is forced to share his eyrie, he is determined to make the best of it. However, he has no intention of ever pair-mating. It's a pity his body has other ideas.</p><p>John Watson can't believe his luck when he meets Sherlock Holmes. But who would ever want a flightless Tiercel with PTSD who can't even manage a courtship flight?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fallibility of Transport

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/gifts).



> This fic is loosely connected with [Fledgling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/294492), which I wrote some time ago. At the time, my beta alltoseek wanted to see the lead-up to that story. Her prompt was something along the lines of, "I want to see flying fucks!" This story is the answer, long delayed. She expected a sex scene. I built a world instead. Safe to say, it got out of control.
> 
> I hung the world-building of this AU on Study in Pink, so if that is uninteresting to people who long for complete originality, you can back-button, or read the first scene and skip later to Chapter 3 and 4, which will be completely original. As for myself, I'm a sucker for first-meetings.
> 
> If you are here for Omegaverse, I apologize - when I'd written Fledgling, which was meant as a mash-up of wing!fic and Omegaverse, I came to the conclusion that Omegaverse, with its scenting and fluids and general dubious consent doesn't mash very well with bird physiology. I have turned Omegaverse up-side down in many respects - it's not really O!verse anymore, but wingfic with possible mpreg. But in this fic there are breeding seasons, life-long pair-mating and multiple gender/sex combinations and other things. I hope that's enough.
> 
> Alpha-beta is the incomparable [alltoseek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek), brit-check by the patient [ red_adam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_adam/pseuds/red_adam), and thanks to fandom cohorts [Mojoflower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower/pseuds/MojoFlower) and feikoi for style suggestions and especially the preliminary read-through to tell me whether I was confusing people with the gender/sex designations.

**Glossary**

  * **Falcon** _-_ Male and female sexes, gender appearance generally matching. Capable of gliding. In Omegaverse, Betas.
  * **Apex Tiercel** _-_ Male sex and masculine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, Alpha.
  * **Apex Tiercel** \- Male sex and feminine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, female Alpha.
  * **Zenith Tiercel** \- Female sex and masculine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, Omega.



 

* * *

 

_Phoenix Palace, January 31st 2010_

Sherlock watched John poke through the prawns and cashew nuts with his chopsticks. A smile touched Sherlock's lips and he slouched back in his chair. His great white wings barred with black rested on the padded slots in the back and sprawled on polished wood. He hadn't ordered anything to celebrate the end of a successful case, contenting himself with a glass of juice. His appetite was off – even though he was usually starving post-case his stomach felt unaccountably queasy.

An interesting case for once, resulting in an eventful evening. Sherlock's mind flicked over the memories, savouring the details. A Falcon woman in pink, her small wings sprawled on a filthy floor. The drugs bust by the righteous Lestrade, standing in 221B and mantling until his dark grey wings filled half the room as he faced down Sherlock. Murderous cabbies kidnapping consulting detectives into their taxi-vans right off the street.

 _Well_ , Sherlock admitted to himself, _I'd been willing enough._ He'd been furious at the invasion masquerading as a drugs bust in his eyrie and flustered by John's militant response. True, the puzzle presented by Jeff Hope had been of real interest until the moment Sherlock had realised there was no solution, no way to guess which bottle held the poison. It was a trick, sleight of hand. His obstinate need to _know_ had made him lift the pill to his lips – one way or another he'd expose the answer.

And then, John had happened. Amazing.

"Aren't you going to have something?" John asked, breaking into Sherlock's reverie. Sherlock's wings lifted at the odd tone then settled again. John's head was tilted, dun hair and grey-brown wings gilded bronze by the light from a hanging red lantern. John gestured with his chopsticks. "It's excellent."

"I don't care for cashews," said Sherlock.

"Dumpling, then?" John lifted one as if to feed Sherlock directly. There was a twinge in the pit of Sherlock's stomach and he waved it away. "You ought to eat something." John's voice was compelling, warm. "You've barely touched anything since yesterday."

"Fine." Sherlock drew the basket towards him, fishing out a moist dumpling and popping it into his mouth. "But that's all I want. I'm not exactly hungry." He wiped his lips with a paper napkin.

John watched the motion. His tongue flicked out to lick dry lips. "All right. I'll take care of the bill."

Sherlock's eyes passed over John as he counted out a couple of notes. Satisfaction and a certain expectant tension radiated from him. John's dark grey-brown wings flexed, settled. Flexed and settled again.

 _Oh, damn_ , Sherlock thought. He thought he'd quashed John's tentative come-on at Angelo's. "John. Perhaps I wasn't clear enough –"

"Oh, you've been clear, Sherlock. No need to lay it out for me, I can deduce this part on my own, thanks." John stood. His wings flexed again, pinions spreading like fingers. Irrelevantly, Sherlock noted the patterning on the underside, how it changed from dark grey to browns to a cream near John's body. Yeung and his teenage daughter watched from next to the register, the girl's hand clapped over her mouth, her small glossy black wings quivering. Sherlock frowned. What was she seeing that Sherlock didn't? What was John _doing_?

"Pardon?" Sherlock hated himself for even voicing the question. His heart was quickening its pace. His fingers tingled. He stood abruptly, gripped by apprehension, wings tangling in the chair and knocking it over. The girl giggled.

John rolled his shoulders, wings shifting with a whisper of feathers. "Didn't expect this - an Apex like me and a Zenith like you. But thank you for the chance. I'm flattered. I hope I don't disappoint."

"Disappoint?" Sherlock's mind felt disjointed, thoughts flaring at random. One small part of him was appalled at how he was repeating everything. _Like an idiot._ His mouth worked. "What do you mean?"

"My shoulder. The courtship flight. You know." John glanced at Yeung, brows lifted. Yeung nodded and slid open a set of glass doors leading onto the balcony. He then pushed his gawping daughter into the kitchen, his small wings flaring out to block her view of their strange customers. A voluble out-pouring of high-pitched Mandarin was cut off by the firm click of the door. They were alone in the restaurant.

John spread his legs, arms hanging loose. A remote part of Sherlock's mind being subsumed by rising comprehension noted how John's jeans sported a growing bulge. John's lips curved at the high flush burning on Sherlock's face, the sweat dampening the curls at his temples, his reddened lips. "You look about ready. Horus, but you're gorgeous. If you're willing, I'll do my best."

"The flight," Sherlock whispered. "The flight. But it's not the end of February." His mind flew over details of the past two days. Oh Horus, Horus, it was too soon. "It's not _February_ ," he said again. Stupid, stupid, he should have seen the signs! "I'm not… John, I can't…"

"Give a flying fuck?" queried John. The crudeness of the phrase plucked a visceral note between them, a cord thrumming with promise. "You can. If you want. If I catch you."

 _Catch_. The room swayed. _Want._ Sherlock's stomach contracted, desire twisting low in his torso.

John continued, "Though I have to say, it's a bit rough on me, doing it in London. Besides the paparazzi, I'll probably have to fight off anyone who sees you tonight." His hot blue eyes ran over Sherlock's body, the quivering white wings. "You're not easy at all, are you."

"No," said Sherlock. He shifted, bringing the table squarely between them, his back to the open doors.

John grinned and the expression was bright, shining with both threat and promise. "I see I'll have my hands full."

"You seem confident," snapped Sherlock.

John said nothing. Sherlock looked at him – the dun-brown hair, the large wings with their grey flight feathers edged in brown. Boring at first glance. Compact body, as befitted a masculine Apex Tiercel. Deceptive jumpers and jeans. But was John actually capable of a courtship flight? Fit - for mating?

The chill breeze from the open door teased at Sherlock's wings. Instead of cooling him, his blood seemed to race faster, threads of fire burning him up. His body was readying itself for the atmospheric cold experienced during a courtship flight. John was utterly still, but Sherlock saw the winding tension, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths as he gathered himself.

What was it to be? Sherlock considered the options. Himself. His over-sensitised body clamouring with need. The open air over London. John.

Fight or flight?

~o~

_London, October 5th, 2009 - 119 days earlier_

“Another twenty, John,” Ella said, standing by the bars in the high-ceilinged gymnasium. Her glossy brown wings were tucked neatly behind her as she took note of John’s progress. “Keep them wide.”

John was shirtless in the cool room, sweat running down his torso to soak into his loose grey shorts. He gripped the bar, leaning into it as he flexed, his great brown-grey wings moving forward, then stretching back and up. Again, and again, the breeze created doing nothing to evaporate the moisture in his short hair. Horus, it hurt, but in a good way. Repetitions complete, he let his wings sag and straightened up. Ella’s smile was professional but warm as she stepped forward. “May I?”

John nodded and braced for the cool hands that ran from his upper wing joint to the juncture at his shoulder, probing. “Supracoracoidius muscles in excellent condition,” she murmured. “Lift and hold.” Obediently John brought his wings up and out, stretching them until the tendons were taut. Her hands felt along the ventral side, passing over hidden bone and sinew to the thick muscles banding John’s chest. He felt nothing as her fingers pressed the bullet scar in his left shoulder. The nerves were still insensate, though Ella assured him that some time in the future the connections might regrow. He was lucky, he knew. He'd regained the full range of motion in his wing.

“Pectoralis muscles couldn’t be fitter. Your strength and stamina is as good as I can make it. You're in better shape than most Tiercels your age,” Ella remarked. “John, you know there’s no reason you can’t -“

“No,” John interrupted. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you said I can glide now. And I have.”

“Five metres is more like a long jump,” Ella said. “That is not what you were made to do. You’re an Apex Tiercel, John. You should be flying.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ John thought. Ella was a Falcon, small-winged like the bulk of the human population, and could only glide. Evolution had led humans down from the skies and to the earth. Humans born with the requisite muscle mass and bone structure capable of flight were rare. Some said they belonged to the past, evolutionary throwbacks of primitive instinct and lesser intelligence. John shook off the thought. Ella was the consummate physiotherapist – she only wanted the best for him, and in her opinion that meant flight. He sighed and met her eyes.

"Fine." His shoulder twinged with phantom pain as he climbed. Jaw firm, he tried to put it out of his head, focussing instead on flying. _You're fine. It's healed. It's all in your head. Psychosomatic._ The platform was a mere five metres high over crash-pads extending the length of the gymnasium. He stood at the edge, drawing in deep breaths and shoving his apprehension down. Dimly he heard Ella's instructions to extend, flap and take off. He bent his legs, gathered himself and leapt.

 _No, Horus, it's going wrong already!_ His launch was crooked, his damned left wing not extending enough. He flapped, trying to straighten out but was already going down. His vision shrank, panic taking hold. _Not again_. Again his wings beat but the left flailed at the air, then folded.

He fell, right wing cupping air and spiralling him around. He hit the pads with his legs bent but the impact was enough to send him to his hands and knees hard enough to bruise. Dizzy, he closed his eyes against the abject shame that burned through him and ignored Ella's concerned voice.

"John? John, are you all right?"

 _Oh, I'm all right_ , he thought. _There's not a thing wrong with me except what's in my head._ Gunfire and pain and the void beneath snatching at his legs until he couldn't breath, couldn't move a feather. Couldn't fly. He throttled back an inappropriate urge to giggle, knowing it would come out sounded demented and broken.

"I'm fine," he said. He refused her helping hand and got to his feet. He spread his wings to demonstrate, flapped them harder than required in frustration. "Nothing sprained."

Ella’s nodded but he felt her disappointment nonetheless. “All right, if you say so. Go and get the green bands and sit on the bench.” She helped him loop the bands over the scapular joint and criss-crossed them, passing the ends over his shoulders. John held the knots and began flexing. Ella stood behind to help spot should his wings move from the best position, but John’s wings were steady, smoothly moving as they pulled the resistance band. “You must understand, though, John,” she said. “If you don’t start to fly again, the muscles will atrophy. You’ll be coming to therapy a long time. Perhaps the rest of your life.”

John bowed his head, a drop of sweat falling from his matted hair to plash on the blue matting. His hand trembled and he tightened his grip. “I know.”

~o~

_October 12th, 2009_

Lestrade stood back as the crime scene team bagged the body for transport, his dark grey wings flexing uneasily. His Apex Tiercel sergeant, slender and small, stood at his shoulder. Sally Donovan shook her head. "Makes no sense."

Lestrade nodded. On the surface, Sir Jeffrey Patterson, Falcon and successful businessman, had no reason in the world to commit suicide. "Did you get anything on the last call he made?"

"Yes." Donovan turned, her voice dropping. "Made to his secretary, Halen Sandberg. I had Peters look her up. There's something worth pursuing there. She’s an Apex Tiercel. Un-mated."

"Oh, Roc's teats," Lestrade groaned. He rubbed his face. "Keep it quiet, then. I don't want the press getting hold of this." The tabloids would salivate if they found this out, even it was the trite old story of a well-known Falcon having an affair with his secretary. Especially an Apex that was one of the rare female-gendered ones like Sally. The glider and the flier - low-brow and racy gossip. "Is it better or worse Halen isn't a simple female Falcon?" he said.

She grimaced. "Better. Patterson would have no need or incentive to leave his mate, not that she'd let him – no chance of children with a male Falcon and an Apex, after all. All the fun and none of the complications of breaking a pair-bond." Her eyes strayed to Anderson in his blue overalls. Lestrade looked away and cleared his throat.

"Right, then. You go and talk to the secretary." As Sally was a feminine Apex and flighted herself, she might be able to play the sympathy card. Lestrade sighed. "I have to pay a visit to his wife."

~o~

John jolted upright on his wide bed, wings flapping in panic, the sensation of plummeting flooding his veins with adrenalin. A glass of water on the bedside table went flying with a smash. His breath stuttered. _Not flying, there's no blood, you're not falling -_

His stomach lurched and he scrambled off the bed. The sheets twisted around his legs and he sprawled, hands slipping on the wet carpet. Frantic, he crawled to the desk and grabbed the waste-paper bin. He curled around it, dry-heaving a few times. His breathing slowed from gasps to long watery breaths.

A sob bubbled up and he turned his face into his shoulder. His wings dragged through the spilled water and glass to wrap him in a cocoon of feathers, shutting out the world.

~o~

_New Scotland Yard, November 27th 2009_

“Sir.” Sally’s voice was odd. Lestrade looked up from his paperwork. “We just got the report back on the victim, James Phillimore.”

“So?” Lestrade leaned back. The Zenith Tiercel had been found with his spine and wings broken, having apparently fallen from a window of a sports centre. Why a young flighted lad in good shape would crash, though - strange. “Was he drunk? Or doing drugs?”

“Drugs, yes.” Sally’s voice was grim. She passed him the paper. “Tests came back positive – for the same drug found in Patterson.”

Lestrade took the report, scanned it and placed it on his desk as he would a live bomb. “Shit.” Another suicide. It looked like kid had blacked out, and if the drug didn’t finish him, the fall would have. He shook his head at this fail-safe planning and looked up at Sally. “Right. I’ll leave you in charge of chasing down any other connection between Phillimore and Patterson. I need to talk to the Superintendent.”

“One other thing, sir.” Sally looked pale. She looked down at the last paper she held, not meeting his eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”

~o~

“He… he was pregnant?” Gary’s red-rimmed eyes were stunned. “Are you sure?”

Lestrade nodded, throat tight. It was abhorrent that a life-bearer had died this way. He rubbed the smooth skin on his wrist where a gold band had rested for so long. His mate may have found someone who provided for her needs more than he'd had time for, but Lestrade would always keep an eye out for his family. It was how male mating instincts went. In spite of the slow changes for equality for female Falcons and Zenith Tiercels in the more dangerous professions, Lestrade knew deep down he was old-fashioned.

Gary’s boyish face crumpled. “He never told me. I mean, we're young, I thought Jimmy would want to wait. I haven’t even told my parents we were… We had to keep it secret. But... Why would he kill himself?” He swiped at his face. “They’ll be happy. They never liked him.” His voice was hoarse. “My dad doesn't like flighted people. It’s stupid, he honestly thinks gliders are better than fliers. But I always knew I was lucky.” His voice hitched and trailed to a thread of sound squeezed from a tight throat. “A good-looking Zenith like Jimmy with a boring Falcon like me? I was lucky,” he repeated and buried his face in his hands.

Lestrade didn’t have the heart for it but he needed to ask more questions. In the meantime, he let the boy cry for his lost mate and their child. He pushed a cup of water closer to the shaking Falcon and waited in silence.

~o~

_Baker Heights, January 25th, 2010_

Sherlock stalked through the spacious rooms of 221B. Perfect. Room to spread his wings at last, away from the smothering influence of his brother.

Baker Heights was an old, narrow house. It had been built as a retirement home in the late thirties by a rich older Falcon couple. Many people who were past the age of gliding needed low buildings, hence Baker Heights only had three storeys. Now cut into three eyries, it belonged to Mrs. Hudson as the legacy of her unlamented late husband.

Mrs. Hudson trailed after her imposing guest. "It's so good to hear from you after all this time, Sherlock. After all that trouble with... well." She went quiet but brightened again, smiling at him. Sherlock returned the smile. It was Mrs. Hudson's innate optimism even after the horror of her pair-mating that had kept her in Sherlock’s memory. That, and her generous offer of a centrally-located eyrie.

Mrs. Hudson's tip-dyed wings twitched. "I hate to be a nuisance and mention this, but the rent...?"

Ah. The rent. Sherlock's wings slumped a little. His own disposable income was sparse and his trust funds tied up by Mycroft.

Reading the look on his face correctly, Mrs. Hudson offered, "There's a second room upstairs." The implication hung in the air. "If you need it."

Sherlock mantled, wings drawing up. Share his eyrie, share his territory with a stranger? Intolerable. It was extremely rare for un-mated people to share living quarters and the whole point of this exercise was to escape interference in his life. Mrs. Hudson shrank back and Sherlock forced himself to settle and give her his warmest smile. "Yes. That's a good thought, Mrs. Hudson."

She fluttered, pink-cheeked at the praise. "I'll make us a cup of tea, shall I? You can look about some more." Sherlock watched her go, his wings drawing tightly to his back. Mrs. Hudson was small for a feminine Falcon and not very strong – it had been easy for her husband to manipulate and keep her under his pinions. An utter perversion of how a mated Falcon should treat his partner. Sherlock did not consider himself any kind of avenging angel, but it had been a pleasure to ensure her husband's execution.

Protection. That was the problem. In this so-called enlightened age, there were still those who felt female Falcons and Zenith Tiercels needed a protector. He clenched his jaw. Being a breeder was such an inconvenience. Not for the first time, Sherlock cursed being born a Zenith. He was more than just any broody flighted simpleton longing for chicks. His wings lifted and flapped hard, raising dust motes to whirl in the sun streaming in the large French doors leading to the balcony. He sat cross-legged, wings sliding behind on the wooden floor, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

His computations provided a sum he didn't care for. Either he applied to Mycroft for financial assistance, or he learned to share his eyrie. It would have to be someone who would be uninterested in Sherlock as a mate – too much trouble there to contemplate. He considered Falcons and promptly discarded them. Gliders wouldn't like Baker Heights – three stories were not high enough. An Apex or a Zenith like himself? Tiercels would enjoy the cheap rents afforded by low dwellings.

Sherlock sniffed and idly reached to smooth a moulting covert feather. This was difficult, particularly as regards his own sexuality. Apexes would try to press their interest, when Sherlock had no intention of ever mating. On the other hand, with an Apex in his eyrie at Baker Heights, Sherlock would be under the aegis of their protection. By allowing the police to believe this harmless social fiction, he would be able to broaden the scope of his investigations.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. The field of potentials was narrow. And considering his personal habits, who would to share an eyrie with him anyway?

There was nothing for it. He wanted Baker Heights. He must find someone to share the rent. When his usual breeding season began in early spring1, he would remove to Holmes Tower, a far-flung estate on one of the smaller Shetland islands. Once the two week season finished, he would return to London and carry on his life in the fashion he desired.

"Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn't be sitting on the floor!" Mrs. Hudson had reappeared. "Come down, I've some proper chairs. The tea is ready."

Sherlock felt a curl of amusement at her civilised dismay but suppressed it. He stood , brushing off his suit and shivering his wings back into place. He inclined his head and followed her down the stairs. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Are there any biscuits?"

~o~

_New Scotland Yard, January 28th, 2010_

“You’ve _got_ to stop him doing that,” Sally groused as they left the press conference. “He’s making us look like idiots.”

Lestrade flipped his wings rudely. “Well, if you can tell me _how_ he does it, I’ll stop him.”

“Freak,” Sally muttered. “I swear he’s –“

“Shut it,” growled Lestrade. “We may need him on this one.”

"Sir, you can't let that Zenith get involved in this! The press will have a field day," Sally protested.

"The press won't find out from us. And after this last one, do you really think any one is safe?" He whirled, wings up. "If we get one more 'suicide', I'll use him. I'd use him if he were pregnant and dragging a broken wing! Because whoever this killer is, he has no scruples and we can't afford any either! All right?"

Sally crossed the tips of her red-brown wings behind her back, shifting away. "All right."

Lestrade smoothed his wings back. "Sorry about that." He paused and offered, "I don't like it either." They both turned and kept walking to his office. Lestrade motioned to a chair but Sally only stood, a crease between her brows.

“You said there was no link between the three victims except the pills,” Sally said.

“I know what I said.”

“You don’t believe it. What are you thinking?”

Lestrade blew out a breath and crossed his arms. "It's not thinking, more like a gut feeling. Might be just a reaction on my part." The death of the last victim, Beth Davenport, was troubling him. She was a happily mated Falcon with two fledglings and had been about the same age as his own ex-mate. "We have four victims."

Sally shook her head. "You can't assume the killer knew Phillimore was pregnant."

"Can't leave it out either. So – Beth Davenport, a Falcon. Mated and mother. James Phillimore, the Zenith Tiercel – secretly mated, and expecting. And then there's Sir Patterson – a Falcon. Also a father, also mated, though not above stretching his bond by taking a lover."

"So, the killer has something against mated pairs?" Sally was sceptical. "A grudge against bonding?"

Lestrade shrugged, wings slumping. "It's a stretch. Just a hunch, nothing tangible." He met her dark eyes. "It's not like we have anything else to work with at the moment."

~o~

_Barts, January 29th, 2010_

"Sorry, left my phone in my coat," Mike lied. Sherlock gave him a cool look before turning back to his slides.

"Here. Use mine." John Watson held out his own phone.

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. He felt a peculiar prickle on the back of his neck. His wings stirred. "Thank you." He waited. John didn't move. Irritated, Sherlock stalked to him, looming over the smaller Apex. John didn't flinch away at the aggressive move but only placed the phone in his hand. Unbidden, Sherlock's wings stretched and flicked, and a long-suppressed instinct began to stir.

John looked drab in the labs at Barts, the grey-browns of his flight feathers dull under fluorescents. _Boring_ _,_ Sherlock thought, _but for three things._ John was an unemployed doctor. He was flight-capable, or had been before he'd returned to England – curious. But most importantly for Sherlock's purposes, he was an Apex Tiercel who needed a place to live.

His thoughts flew. 221B was too expensive on his own. Having this particular Apex as a flat-mate would accomplish several other things as well, the bulk of which fell under the umbrella of 'getting interfering people off his back.' Once John understood there would be none of that stupidity about mating, Sherlock would appear to others to be under John's 'protection'. And John was a doctor - potentially useful.

Just like that, Sherlock made his decision. "I play violin, conduct experiments in the kitchen and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you if we shared an eyrie?"

John wrinkled his brow. "Who said anything about sharing an eyrie?"

Happily, John seemed easy-going for an Apex. Sherlock was pleased at how John neither commented on Sherlock's sex nor suggested Sherlock _needed_ his protection. _Or other 'favours'._ Excellent. John even took Sherlock's dissection of his history with no more than a tightening of his face where others would have been infuriated. Instead of a show of challenge, John's grey wings drew into his back, rigidly controlled.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B, Baker Heights," Sherlock said, filled with a pleasurable sense of accomplishment. He winked. John only shook his head, looking at Mike with a crease between his brows. Sherlock ducked out and walked away, wings tucked high against his back in anticipation and skin prickling.

Odd. John didn't follow him out demanding explanations. Sherlock felt a pang of irritation at this absence of attention, then put it out of his mind.

~o~

John's shoulders were tight with the effort of keeping his feathers smoothed. The door clicked closed behind the Zenith. What had _that_ been? The strange man – _Sherlock_ , John reminded himself – had spent the half-minute gleefully stripping John's past bare. All that business about Afghanistan and his inability to fly due to psychosomatic symptoms - how could he possibly know that? It was frightening and a little humiliating to be exposed in front of Mike. John was a private man and this Sherlock Holmes had tested his Army-trained control. In the RAMC when so many had to share territory, displays of dominance were discouraged in officers, especially flighted officers. The voice of reason told John he was not allowed to bat the Zenith Tiercel 'round the head for that show of challenge, no matter how he longed to.

John breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. _Calm._ _It's nothing_. Mike thought John could move in with that? John looked at him, aggrieved. But before he could voice his indignation Mike spoke.

“That was odd. Not much like him.”

John gaped. “What?” He gestured with his free hand. “Mike, did you hear him? The things he said – is he looking for help with the rent or a fight?”

Mike shrugged, dove-grey wings lifting and falling. “That? No, he's always saying stuff like that. Not afraid to push buttons, is Sherlock Holmes.” He cocked his head. "Or show off." His tone said John was missing the point.

John's forehead creased. “I mean, granted, everything he said was true. But Horus's teeth, Mike! Just – what was that?”

Mike's mouth lifted at one corner. “No, I meant the little wing flutter he did. It was different. Like he was trying to scoop you in.”

“Huh?”

“When you offered your phone. He wanted you to come closer.”

“He did not,” John said.

“He did. But you just stood there and held it out.”

“Yeah, and then he tore into that poor Falcon until she practically moulted confidence. And he had a go at me!”

Mike grinned. “So he did. She ran away. You stood your ground. Must have sent the right signals2. Great Roc, John, if I'd been on the end of the wink he gave you – well. All I'm saying is, it's not Sherlock's usual style at all.”

John paused. An image of the tall, angular Zenith Tiercel rose before him. Out of John's class. Gorgeous colouring with those white wings barred with black, the hair and eyes setting off the whole. Gyr ancestry, if John was any judge. A tad thin for his sex but altogether attractive – until he opened his mouth and spoke.

John sat, wings slumping. "No. You're wrong. Why would he be interested?" He gestured his meaning in a sweep of his hand – greying hair, his slumping left wing, the creases around his eyes. An ex-Army doctor without steady means of support and a parcel of PTSD from the war. A flighted man who could hardly bear gliding now. The nightmares came nearly every night – the searing pain of the bullet punching through his flight-bearing muscles, the endless fall as the desert whirled up to slap him. He'd only just been able to stop himself breaking every bone in his body, his uninjured wing-side straining as he'd spun down like a broken child's toy. His hand lifted and rubbed his shoulder.

Mike looked like he wanted to offer sympathy, but instead he only said, "John, you've been abroad too long."

"Out of touch, you mean?" John laughed. "Yeah, well. It's not like the Army allows female Falcons or Zenith Tiercels – the official line is that they are too disruptive to troops come breeding time. So I'm out of practice." He thought the encounter through. "Okay, so you say he wing-fluttered at me. But... I offered my phone. He wanted me... to hand it to him directly? To provide. Provide a phone, sure, but still." _And he came to me when I wouldn't move_. "And he winked." John still couldn't believe that bit.

"Now you're getting it," Mike said. "Not to mention how he pecked at you with all that 'Afghanistan of Iraq?' business but you didn't fly at him over it.3"

John's breath caught, resumed. He scarcely dared believe what Mike was telling him. Traitorous hope flickered in his chest.

"He's probably cranky because you didn't chase after him just now." Mike chuckled. "Those instincts, eh?'

"Horus," breathed John. "Maybe I have been away too long. Can't believe I missed that cue." He didn't know what Sherlock saw in him, but John was willing to play along and see where this went. Zenith Tiercels could be fickle if a suitor didn't step up his game and John wasn't about to lose this chance. _A pair-mate, after all this time_. He felt dizzy at the thought, then his heart sank. Flying. Could he seriously court a Zenith without a flight to prove himself?

John drew in a deep breath. His left wing trembled and drew up even with the right. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and they said ambition was good for a Tiercel, didn't they?

"So, you'll meet him tomorrow? See his eyrie?" Mike waggled his eyebrows and John laughed.

"Yeah. We'll see what's what. How about getting a sandwich? Tell me they modernised the cafeteria here too."

"No, but they do a decent ham and cheese." John led the way out the door, wings tucked at a rakish angle. Behind him Mike smiled in satisfaction at the sight.

~o~

_Baker Heights, 30th of January, 6:50 pm._

Sherlock's wings spread wide as he glided on the slight up-draught over the lake of Regent's Park. His fitted Belstaff coat was buttoned tightly in the winter air, the knotted blue scarf a blue banner trailing behind. Sherlock would never admit it but he was glad of the coat's warmth. To maintain optimal flying weight he had to stay slim. He wouldn't have taken Mycroft's gift, burdened as it was with an acerbic gift card saying how it would 'suit your penchant for the dramatic'. But it was warm and in spite of the little barb, Mycroft did have an eye for a classic style.

Sherlock turned down Baker street, angling his wings back to lessen his his speed and altitude. His keen eyes swept the street below and saw a taxi with familiar grey-brown wings filling one window. Ah, there he was. He back-swept and dropped, landing with a practised flex of knees and walking to greet John as the doctor slid open the door of the taxi and got out.

John shook hands with Mrs. Hudson whose violet dyed feathers were all aflutter over her new tenants. He looked at the façade of Baker Heights with appreciation.

 _Good_ , thought Sherlock. John seemed not to have the stupid prejudice of most against lower dwellings. It was a glider failing, the self-preening need to have a high dwelling. Ostensibly it was to have a height to launch from, when Sherlock knew most just wanted to look down on others.

Sherlock led the way into the eyrie, wings twitching. He noted the slump of John's left wing, pinions dragging on the floor.

John stood looking about in the middle of the room, a spot of calm browns and greys against clashing wallpaper and clutter. "Well, this could be very nice," he commented.

Sherlock relaxed. Good. John's Saker heritage was proving useful, as they tended not to mind old dwellings.

"As soon as we scrape up this mess," John finished. Sherlock ruffled up in embarrassed anger. His own Gyr family enjoyed a cluttered home but if he looked at it through John's eyes, Baker Heights was crammed with oddments that looked like rubbish. _No. Settle_. He forced himself to smooth his feathers. An Apex to split the rent was what he needed, and territorial instincts be damned.

"Er, I'll just -" Sherlock muttered and scooped files into a box. Oddly, John joined him, kneeling with a grunt to stack loose papers together and handing them to him. Their fingers brushed. Sherlock jerked the papers away, flushing at the shock of contact.

A small smile touched John's face before he levered himself to his feet. He picked up a couple of cushions and brushed them off, dropping them into the low-backed armchair4. He sat with a sigh, arranging his wings to rest on the padded back. "Saw your website last night. _The Science of Deduction_?"

Sherlock paused in his tidying. "What did you think?"

"Bit far-fetched, isn't it? Saying you can tell an architect by the webbing on his thumb and an ambulance driver by his left hand? How can you possibly know?" John's smile faded as he took in Sherlock's expression. "I mean..."

"Being flighted doesn't mean idiot, as you well know, _Doctor_. No matter what the Daily Star likes to spout about evolution," retorted Sherlock. "It's easy enough to deduce these things if you know how to look."

John was dismayed but before he could say anything, Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs. "Yoo hoo! Sherlock! You've a visitor, an Inspector Lestrade? Can he trespass?"

Sherlock's face lit. "Yes, send him up, Mrs. Hudson!" He turned to the door as Lestrade came in, twitching blue-grey remiges back into order after his hasty entrance. "Where?"

"Brixton. Lauriston Crest," said Lestrade. His short grey hair was wind-ruffled, Sherlock noted. He must have flown hard and fast to get here. "This one's left a note. Will you come?"

"Is Anderson on forensics?" Sherlock asked and grimaced at Lestrade's nod. "I need an assistant. He won't work with me."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Surprising. You stick in his craw. Now, will you come?"

Sherlock gestured to the stairs. "Second floor balcony. I'll be right behind you."

Lestrade's eyes passed over John, who looked nonplussed at this strange Apex Tiercel invading his – _their –_ eyrie5. He gave them both a general bow. "Thank you."

Sherlock waited until the sound of the exterior door opening on the upper balcony upstairs reached his ears before giving an excited hop, wings half-spreading in glee. "Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Gryphem Solis!" He snatched his coat and scarf from the door, fingers flying as he buttoned. "Five miles, take a bit of wing-work to get to the Thames up-draught," he muttered.

"Here," John said. Sherlock tilted his head. John held out a foil-wrapped bar. "For energy. You might need it if you decide to fly back.6"

"Oh." Sherlock took it, a strange warmth lighting his belly for a moment. He flicked his wings to chase the sensation away and tucked the bar into a pocket.

"Mind you eat it," John said. Sherlock nodded, distracted as he scooped up his crime scene kit and raced upstairs.

He threw himself headlong from the balcony, wings beating against the air. He'd reached the main road when a nagging feeling asserted itself. _John. Why wasn't John following – Oh_. The case of his flightless Apex.

Perhaps John hadn't understood Sherlock's meaning regarding the need for an assistant? Really, there was no point in having a doctor eyrie-share with him if he wasn't going to be _useful._ Sherlock frowned. There was no way John would be able to glide even as far as Buckingham Pinnace, but the crime scene wasn't going anywhere.

Sherlock angled his wings, wheeled in a tight circle and dropped back to the street, waving an arm at a passing taxi. Turning his face up to the windows of 221B, he cupped his hands around his mouth.

“John! John Watson!”

A moment later the second floor window was pushed open. John leaned over the ledge to peer down. His face was grave. Unhappy? Well, this would cheer him up. Sherlock gestured, wings half-opening in impatience.

“Come on. The taxi's waiting.”

“Pardon?” John looked confused.

“Brixton! Crime scene! You're a doctor, aren't you? Come down, the game is on!”

John's mouth opened and closed a few times before a delighted smile lit his face. “Let me get my coat,” he said. Sherlock's lips curved in satisfaction.

* * *

**Footnotes - Behaviour**

1 Breeding season for raptor species vary, but most start at the end of February or March depending on the latitudes, when the increase of daylight triggers an important hormone production cycle. In cases of distress or lack of food and other issues the female may forgo a breeding season with a partner entirely.

2 Wing hitching and shuffling is a type of courtship behaviour displayed by males

3 Females in the raptor species such as peregrine falcons or Sakers tend to be larger and fiercer. They can do serious damage to any would-be mate. Any raptor wishing to win a mate must curb his natural aggression.

4 Nesting behaviour – depending on the species of falcon  in our world, the male and female will work, sometimes together, to build the 'scrape' or nest. They literally lie on their breasts and use their feet to scrape a depression in the earth or gravel of a ledge, or push together some sticks. Other species will use old abandoned nests of large birds in trees or cliffs. They also tend to return to the same nesting area year after year.

5 Territorial squabbles for hunting or nesting can get quite serious in the falcon world. Any interloper into a pair's territory is a threat and a potential rival to be driven off.

6Courtship behaviour - to prove he is a fit mate and good provider, the male falcon woos the female with food.


	2. Abandoned, Flighted, Blackmailed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blazing through the SiP episode AU as fast as possible, and I hope it reads okay. The bulk of the episode revamp is finished in this chapter. Enjoy!

John's wings shifted against the sides of the narrow-backed taxi seat in pleasure as surprised gratification ran over Sherlock's face.  
  
"That's not what people normally say. They usually tell me to piss off," Sherlock said and they both laughed. In the reflection of the taxi's side window John saw Sherlock's faint smile. Good, he was getting the hang of this courtship thing. He thought he'd botched it back at Baker Heights. Then, that impressive Apex Tiercel detective had barged in and stolen Sherlock's attention. A flicker of jealousy flared in John's chest. The detective hadn't been wearing a mating band. He was a potential rival for Sherlock. John knew he had to get it together – it would be a pretty poor courtship if he couldn't even fly. Other tactics were needed to impress Sherlock.  
  
Horus, but the man was clever, deducing John's life from a mobile phone. Prickly-proud about it, too. Well, John understood his sensitivity on the matter. Scientific and medical evidence showed that man's evolution to a civilised species corresponded with a reduction in wing span and flight muscles. These days most of the population, the Falcons, were gliders and only if they were fit and not overweight. But when pseudo-scientists claimed that flighted people were evolutionary atavisms, practically Archaeopteryx in their intelligence – well, that rankled. There was no hard scientific proof. Still, the popular myth clung on and John had had his share of confrontations. When he told many people his profession, they were polite enough but he could see the faint surprise in their eyes. Worse, they would often congratulate him, as if it were noteworthy that a Tiercel was a medical man. It was one reason he'd entered the Army. They were eager to use the resources of flighted men and didn't question his capabilities as a doctor.  
  
 _It's an odd world_ , John mused. He'd literally looked down on gliders when he'd flown, but common prejudice let them look down on the flighted. He felt a certain kinship with Sherlock – they had this in common. _I'm glad I made him laugh. I can do this part of the courtship at least and preen his ego a little._  
  
He pulled out another energy bar from his pocket, opened it and broke off a piece. He popped it in his mouth and nudged Sherlock.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Here." John tore off another piece and put it into Sherlock's hand before he could refuse. Sherlock eyed him but ate it, jaw working in the light from his phone as he continued tapping.  
  
John's lips parted on a silent exhalation of relief. He'd eaten the food.  
  
~o~  
  
 _Lauriston Crest, Brixton, January 30th, 2010_  
  
John shuffled sideways, pressing his wings to the peeling wallpaper as another police officer brushed past him. Great Horus, what did Sherlock expect him to do here? He followed him to a small room where Lestrade was putting on blue crime scene overalls. Sherlock indicated with a finger that John should do the same.  
  
Lestrade looked from him to Sherlock, a crease between his brows. "Who's this?"  
  
"He's with me."  
  
"Yeah, but who _is_ he?" Lestrade pursued.  
  
"I said – he's with me." Sherlock sighed. "Your powers of observation are withering, Lestrade. You saw him back in our eyrie."  
  
Lestrade eyed John, astonishment writ plain on his face. "Our – I mean, your eyrie?"  
  
John looked back steadily, wings partly spread. "Yes. Baker Heights. Doctor John Watson." He didn't offer to shake the other Tiercel's hand. Lestrade shrugged, his expression saying, _Better you than me, mate._ John relaxed.

Sherlock was watching Lestrade expectantly. The detective heaved a breath.  
  
"Yes, fine, this time you can handle the body directly _with gloves_ , but don't do anything stupid.”  
  
“Don't be so old-fashioned, Inspector. There is no danger in a simple physical examination,” Sherlock said.  
  
John's neck prickled at the idea of Sherlock in danger but he suppressed it. Sherlock was not his. Sherlock would doubtless be unpleasant if John protested and making Sherlock displeased was not part of John's plans for courting him.  
  
“If there was, you'd find it,” muttered Lestrade. “C'mon. Upstairs.”  
  
Lauriston Crest was at least fifty years older than Baker Heights, with high ceilings and longer stairways. It had seen better days and would doubtless have been torn down long ago were it not for the undesirable neighbourhood. On the third floor in an abandoned nursery was a Falcon woman face down on the floor. The bright pink coat of her coat was incongruous in the drab room. Her small grey wings had pink stencilling in attractive scrolls accentuating their shape, but they lay limp to either side, tips dirty. John grimaced.  
  
Sherlock stepped into the room and began to examine her. His wings were held fastidiously high above the floor as he knelt, sniffed and touched.  
  
John shivered as he watched, remembering the intense scrutiny of those eyes earlier. Sherlock leapt to his feet, lovely lips shaping around lengthy observations. John's mouth curved. A Zenith Tiercel, a gorgeous, clever flighted man. Horus, he wanted this chance.  
  
"Doctor Watson." Sherlock turned to him, tone formal. "What do you think?"  
  
"Hang on!" Lestrade protested. "We've a load of medical people outside -"  
  
"Who won't work with me because as you put it so aptly, I 'stick in their craw.' You need me and I need an assistant. Doctor Watson?"  
  
John felt a surge of satisfaction as Lestrade gave way before Sherlock, wings twitching in irritation as he left. He knelt by the woman's body with a grunt, left wing dragging on the floor. "What do you want me to do?"  
  
What Sherlock wanted was to make a point to Lestrade. John shrugged inwardly. Well, if that meant showing the Inspector that Sherlock preferred John's help to his, that was fine by John. A little territorial claiming was all to the good. But Great Roc, John wasn't a criminal pathologist.  
  
Feeling self-conscious, he gave his opinion. Sherlock leaned close and watched his face as he spoke, eyes flicking between his mouth and eyes. Lestrade returned and Sherlock started upright, firing off deductions. John got to his feet, shivering his wings to rid them of dust.  
  
 _Horus,_ thought John. _Just listen to him._ "That's brilliant." Sherlock looked round him at, arrested. "Sorry. Carry on," John said, gesturing.  
  
Sherlock continued. "Oh, come on!" Lestrade exclaimed at one point. Sherlock rolled his eyes but the angle of his body turned away from the Apex. A small possessive heat bloomed in John's chest. Lestrade's scepticism was irritating Sherlock. _Good_.  
  
"That's fantastic!" he said. Sherlock turned to him, brows drawn together.  
  
"Do you know you do that out loud?"  
  
"Sorry." John ducked his head. "I'll shut up."  
  
The back-lighting obscured John's view, but was that a flush on Sherlock's cheekbones?  
  
"No, it's fine," Sherlock murmured. John breathed a satisfied sigh. Sherlock spoke in a torrent, turning as he gestured, the flare of his wings causing dust motes to whirl in the crime scene lights.  
  
 _It's like – like a courtship display for me_ , John thought. _Trying to impress me? No trouble there, I'm all yours._  
  
Sherlock came a halt. "Oh. Oh!" His face lit with realisation.  
  
"Sherlock?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock's wings flexed in echo of his hands. "A serial killer. And he's just made a mistake."  
  
Lestrade pushed himself away from the door frame. "What mistake?"  
  
"Look at her! Find Jennifer Wilson's family and friends. To err is to be human, and hello! We have an error." Lestrade sputtered as Sherlock pushed past him to the stairwell. John and Lestrade both followed. Sherlock wrestled the ancient latch on the French doors open, flakes of paint pattering to the worn boards. "Find Rachel!" he directed.  
  
He was on the exterior balcony and launching himself skyward before either Lestrade or John could move. They both rushed outside, faces upturned as the great white wings beat against the air. Lestrade shouted, "What mistake?"  
  
Faintly the deep voice came back to them. " _Pink!_ "  
  
Lestrade looked at John, open-mouthed in baffled fury. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Bloody typical.”  
  
“Typical?” John asked. He felt bereft as he watched the white wings disappear into the night.  
  
“Sodding Sherlock Holmes, showing off to everyone and letting us know what idiots we all are, that's what. Consulting prima donna Zenith.”  
  
“Oh.” John paused as something occurred to him. “He ever, you know… deduce a pile of facts about you?”  
  
Lestrade snorted. “First time we met. My wings were itching to slap him silly, let me tell you. If I didn't need him…” Lestrade shook his head. “Coming in?”  
  
John leaned sideways to look over the low parapet at the flashing lights and people moving in and out of the building. His shoulder ached. He gave Lestrade a weak smile. “Yeah.”  
  
He might have known Sherlock wasn't trying to impress him. Sherlock had flown off without a thought. _Too right_ , John thought. Taking a taxi or walking was fine but John couldn't bloody well fly with him. Horus knew what he'd been dreaming, thinking of courting Sherlock. He was useless.  
  
He didn't even protest when a police officer bumped against him as he descended. John's jaw tightened. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go to his ugly coop-sit, preen his useless wings and try to forget this evening's events. He collected his jacket and made his way out to the street.  
  
The slim Apex sergeant – Donovan, he reminded himself, tilted her head at him. Her wings were an attractive rufus colour, feathers fluffed against the night's chill. "Flown off, has he?"  
  
"Yeah," John muttered. She glanced at his left wing, which insisted on slumping no matter how often he hitched it, but John said nothing more.  
  
"You're not his friend. So what are you?" she said.  
  
"Nobody," John said. The word was a bitter pill dissolving on his tongue, chasing away the sweet longing that still tried to rise within him.  
  
"He doesn't have friends. So here's my advice for you: fly away from him, as far as you can."  
  
The accumulation of his disappointment and frustrated mating instincts abruptly kindled in a jealous flare, burning rational thought away. Leave Sherlock?  "Why? Because you think he's a freak? Because he _thinks_?" Her mouth opened but he leaned closer to this rival. "Or is there another reason you're warning me off Sherlock Holmes?"  
  
To her credit, Donovan didn't step back. Her gaze went up and behind before returning to John's face. "No, Doctor. Nothing you want to hear, apparently. Now back down before someone notices." Her tone was level.  
  
John felt the pull in his shoulders and looked back, surprised. His wings had extended in a full dominance display he hadn't even noticed. He dropped and folded them, shamed. He hadn't lost control like that in years. And here he was, threatening a police officer, all rationality fled. _Horus._ "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's been... well, never mind."  
  
She snorted. "Taxis are out by the main road."  
  
John nodded and walked where she pointed.  
  
"Doctor Watson. You're wrong."  
  
John looked back.  
  
"That's not why I think he's a freak. Mostly. And Sherlock? Not my type." She flashed him a bright smile with no humour in it. "Good luck." With that she turned her back to him.  
  
~o~  
  
 _Warehouse, 30th of January, 2010_  
  
John approached the silhouetted figure leaning on a walking stick in the warehouse, his heart-beat loud in his ears. _Kidnapped. Now what?_ A stool sat empty and incongruous.  
  
"You could've used my phone, if you wanted to talk. I have a phone, you know _."_ John halted a few paces away. The back-lighting from a car's head lamps haloed white wings. John squinted at the shadowed face.  
  
"Won't you take a seat?" a posh voice asked.  
  
"I don't accept things from faceless strangers."  
  
"Ah. The bravado of the soldier. Very well. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"  
  
"Sherlock?" John felt off-balanced. "Almost non-existent? I met him yesterday."  
  
"Yes, just yesterday. And since then you've taken an eyrie with him and now you're solving crimes together."  
  
John lifted his chin. "What's it to you?"  
  
"You're an Apex Tiercel who happens to have taken up with an un-mated Zenith Tiercel. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The tall figure moved, circling until the light of car lamps fell on the side of his face. Sharp nose, familiar grey eyes, white wings... barred with black. John groaned. "Oh, hell."  
  
"Indeed. His brother. Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."  
  
John scrubbed his face with his hand, blew out a breath. "Think I will take that seat, thanks." He sat with a thump, wings pulled in defensively. _Family._ He looked at Mycroft. "Is this where you warn me off your brother or I disappear forever?"  
  
Mycroft tapped his ebony walking stick. "Not precisely. May I ask your intentions towards my brother?"  
  
"My intentions." John barked a laugh. "There are no intentions."  
  
"Let us say, your hopes, then."  
  
The words fell like a blow. He dropped his gaze.  
  
"I see." Mycroft's voice was not unkind. "From my own experience of my brother, you must be handling him the right way, or he would never have tolerated your proximity in his eyrie or his work."  
  
"And what of it?"  
  
Mycroft sighed, wings shifting. "I have... an interest in the matter."  
  
"An interest?" John looked at Mycroft's serious face, incredulous. "You - you're not seriously telling me you want me to court your brother?"  
  
"Sherlock has been in denial of his sexuality his entire life. He is volatile and prone to..." Mycroft pursed his lips. "Unwise decisions. His life style is unorthodox. And it is unbalanced."  
  
"And you think I'm going to steady him? Mr. Holmes. You are seriously mistaken about... well, everything."  
  
"He won't accept my help."  
  
"Can't see why," John retorted, looking around for an exit. His wings clamped tight in distress, muscles beginning to quiver.  
  
"I worry about him, and would consider -"  
  
" _I can't fly."_ John's voice was harsh. He stood, the stool tipping over with a clatter.  
  
Mycroft tilted his head in a movement so reminiscent of Sherlock's that John looked away.  
  
"I can't fly," he repeated. "So you've wasted your time."  
  
Mycroft reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a note book. He flipped it open. "You received a rifle shot to your left shoulder under the clavicle. It exited behind the shoulder, above the scapula and missing your wing. You managed to land, but nearly died from blood loss from a nicked sub-clavian artery. Infection set in, and you were medically discharged."  
  
"How do you know that." John's voice was dead.  
  
"Six months later, physical mobility restored, you will do no more than glide short distances from low heights. Your physiotherapist's notes say you have 'issues'." Mycroft's brow lifted.  
  
"That's none of your business."  
  
"But if you are to take up with Sherlock Holmes, I'm afraid I must disagree."  
  
John said nothing. Mycroft tucked the note book back into his jacket. "Interesting." He turned and began walking away.  
  
John had to ask. "What's interesting?"  
  
Mycroft turned back. "You say you cannot fly. But patently you can."  
  
"I can't."  
  
Mycroft clucked in reproof and walked back. He hooked his walking stick over his arm. He held up his hands. "May I examine you?"  
  
John swallowed. He nodded. His wings flared when Mycroft reached for his right shoulder. "Not the wings." He hated having his wings touched by strangers.  
  
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him. He grasped John's right shoulder, holding him still. His hand passed over John's chest, his left shoulder, prodding and pressing the thick muscles. "Very good. Now spread your wings?" John did so, feeling a bit of a fool under Mycroft's detachment. "Yes. I thought so." Mycroft stepped back.  
  
"What?"  
  
Mycroft unhooked his stick and held it in his right hand. Without warning he slashed it at John's head.  
  
John found himself five metres away in a half-crouch, wings cupped and trembling in reaction, heart thundering in his ears. "You _bastard_. What are you about?" he spat.  
  
"A reverse back-winged launch in a confined space without hitting your head. Remarkable. Excellent spatial awareness. I begin to see what Sherlock sees in you." Mycroft planted his stick and rested both hands upon it. "Your therapy notes say your muscular condition and mobility has been fully restored. Your physiotherapist believes your inability to fly is a result of post-traumatic stress disorder and purely psychosomatic. She's right."  
  
"I know!" John snarled. "But it isn't just something you... " The words trailed off.  
  
Mycroft's mouth curled at one corner. "Forget? It is. You are afraid you can't fly, ergo you can't. Your conscious mind is deluding you. Your subconscious knows better. When the time is right, if properly motivated you will take to the air. Just as if you had never fallen."  
  
John shuddered at the reminder of falling, wings dropping until the tips dragged on the concrete. "Damn you."  
  
Something chimed. John fished out his mobile and clicked. A new message.  
  
 **Baker Heights. Come immediately, if convenient.**  
 **If inconvenient, come anyway.**  
 **SH**  
  
John huffed a laugh, tension draining away. Mycroft's brow lifted.  
  
"My brother, I presume."  
  
John felt lighter. Sherlock was waiting for him. "You really think I should try."  
  
"Forget the war," Mycroft advised. "I think you'll find Sherlock will make up for all the adrenaline you ever missed."  
  
"Just to be clear here." John shifted, a bit embarrassed. "Is this you giving your approval?"  
  
Mycroft's little smile was brief. "Sherlock can be... difficult. Be careful how you proceed."  
  
"All right." John nodded.  
  
Mycroft inclined his head in return and again the gesture reminded John of Sherlock. "Good night, Doctor Watson."  
  
The handshake was formal. Mycroft walked to his waiting car, twirling his walking stick. _Bastard doesn't even need it,_ John thought. His phone beeped. Sherlock again.  
  
 **Could be dangerous.**  
  
"Could be," John said. "Could very well be."  
  
He couldn't wait.  
  
~o~  
  
 _Angelo's, January 30th, 2010_  
  
As Angelo shook his hand, Sherlock smiled reflexively at the effusive greetings. John looked at the restaurant owner whose brown wings were dwarfed by his bulk, mouth falling open a little before he smiled.  
  
“This Tiercel, he got me off a murder charge!” Angelo boomed at John.  
  
“It was nothing,” disclaimed Sherlock, though he was pleased at John's reaction. “Any idiot would have seen how the eyrie's locks had been forced from the outside, and therefore there was no possible way you could have done it.”  
  
Angelo patted his belly. “Always have been too fat to glide. But I serve the best Italian food inside the Circle line. Anything for you and your suitor, no charge!”  
  
John smiled a little but said nothing at Angelo's assumption of courting. Sherlock frowned at him before turning to scan the street. Angelo's restaurant was at ground-level due to the owner's lack of flight, and perfect for street-level surveillance. Sherlock pressed a knuckle to his mouth and thought as he watched through the window for signs of the killer.  
  
At Lauriston Crest, in the thrill of perfect comprehension, he'd flown off and forgotten that John wasn't able to follow. That had to change. One crime scene with John and Sherlock had been able to interact with the body hands-on rather than observe from a distance as Lestrade normally forced him to do. He'd also endured less rudeness from the police and been granted access more quickly to the site.  
  
Angelo brought a steaming plate and John drew in an appreciative breath at the scent. Sherlock briefly enjoyed the look of pleasure on John's face before returning his attention to the street. Yes, John was working out quite well. No one was quite sure what to make of him. They'd assumed Sherlock was under his protection rather than provoke a confrontation with a territorial male. Sherlock was certain that should John continue to be biddable, he'd train up into a passable assistant over time. It would mean more and better crime scenes. But first he had to dispose of John's ridiculous flight inhibition.  
  
John thought he was brilliant. Sherlock's face warmed at the unbidden thought and he took a hasty sip of water. His attention returned to his companion. John was enjoying his baccala, cutting it into dainty bites before lifting a piece to his mouth. Sherlock's stomach knotted as John chewed and swallowed, the muscles of his throat working.  
  
"This is wonderful. You should try it," John said.  
  
"I don't eat on cases."  
  
John rested his fork on his plate and look at Sherlock. "I'm a doctor."  
  
"Is this where you tell me I should eat? I won't. It slows my thinking."  
  
"No. A clever man like you would know that as a flighted man, a diet with carbs, lean proteins and vegetables are best suited to the demands of your physiology. You should fuel your 'transport'." John nudged the bread basket closer. "Have something – you've just spent the last few hours flying and bin diving. You're alarmingly thin, even for a Zenith."  
  
"I'm not hungry."  
  
"Well. That's a pity. You might've needed the energy if we were to actually to exert ourselves on this stake-out. I suppose I'll just have catch this killer myself when you run out of wind." John smiled.  
  
Sherlock was irked by the suggestion. "Fine." He snatched John's fork and stole the largest piece of fish from John's dish, chewing and swallowing quickly. At John's lifted brow he curled his lip and took a piece of bread. "Don't try to treat me like some helpless Zenith." He bit into crusty bread.  
  
"I won’t," said John.  
  
"I like my independence."  
  
"So do I."

Sherlock brushed a stray crumb from his shirt front. John's tongue wet his lips.  
  
 _Oh, no. That would never do_. Sherlock swallowed, the bread unaccountably thick in his throat. "As point of fact, John, I consider myself mated to my work. It is my ambition to be the best consulting detective in London. I have no time for distractions."  
  
John looked at his plate. "Of course. I wouldn't... So, no Apex waiting with folded wings?"  
  
Sherlock snorted.  
  
"Falcon?"  
  
"No."  
  
John chuckled, the sound warm and sympathetic. "So, no one. It's fine." He picked up a piece of fish with thumb and forefinger and ate it, licking sauce from his thumb. Goosebumps raced up Sherlock's forearms. But John's eyes were clear and guileless when he looked back to Sherlock. "Really, Sherlock. I'm fine with that."  
  
Sherlock hesitated. Fine with what exactly? He opened his mouth but movement caught his eye. Turning his hunting gaze out the window, he saw a black-winged Falcon man close the door of twenty-two Northumberland Street.  
  
"There. He's taking a taxi." He stood and threw on his coat, knotting his scarf and buttoning the wing plackets with quick movements. "John. Come on, it's moving!"  
  
He ran out the door and into the street, hearing John's muffled curse. A van braked hard as he appeared in front of it. Sherlock hopped, planted a foot on the bonnet and vaulted up and over, wings flaring to carry him to a safe landing beyond. Horns blared but Sherlock ignored them, whirling to see John hurrying up, coat flapping and unbuttoned. Both of John's wings were up and flexing with no signs of weakness or trembling. Good.  
  
"Horus, Sherlock, what were you thinking?" John's face was slack with shock.  
  
"Never mind that now. No time. Come on!" The taxi turned the corner onto the main road.  
  
Sherlock ran, half-his mind on the probable course of the taxi, the other half focused on the sound of John's footsteps. He slowed, grabbed John's wrist and pulled him into a faster pace. "Keep up, John!"  
  
John lengthened his strides, their wings brushing as they raced.  
  
~o~  
  
The lorry driver nearly had a cardiac infarction when he looked up from fiddling with the radio. Two figures dashed around a corner right into his path. _Oh, Roc's teats_ , he thought, hand dancing over the gear-shift and braking hard. Too fast. Too late.  
  
He had a glimpse of two faces turned up to his, white in the head-lamps before there was an explosion of wings and feathers. The scream strangled in his throat.  
  
But there was no impact.  
  
Tyres squealing, he brought his vehicle to a stop, wrenching at the seat belt in his lap. He threw open the door and jumped out. Legs shaky, he looked at the front of his lorry. No blood, no dents. He hadn't hit them. His wings trembled humming-bird fast in reaction. He heard a faint shout.  
  
"No, this way, John!"  
  
Disbelieving, the lorry driver looked skyward. Two pairs of wings beat hard, taking the two men up and away. His fright turned to fury at the sight. He looked around to see other passers-by looking either at him in shock or at the soaring Tiercels. One young Falcon female had a wide grin on her face as she held up a mobile phone to take pictures. The lorry driver's temper snapped. He shook his fist at the disappearing pair.  
  
"Horus damn you, you... you fly boys! _Get an eyrie!_ "  
  
~o~  
  
 _Baker Heights, January 30th, 2010_  
  
John's heart was pounding with exhilaration as they touched down on the pavement outside Baker Heights. They were both breathing heavily as they tumbled across the threshold. Sherlock made quick work of getting rid of his Belstaff but John found himself stuck. The loose tails of his coat had tangled up under themselves during the head-long flight. He twisted his arms awkwardly and yanked. The coat refused to yield.  
  
Sherlock lifted a brow, half-smiling at John's predicament. "Turn around."  
  
John turned, hitching his wings to give Sherlock a better view. A few tugs and the tails hung free. He lifted his hands to his lapels when he felt Sherlock's hands pluck at the shoulders, lifting the fabric. He shrugged out of the garment, letting Sherlock pull it away and hang it up for him. To his surprise, Sherlock stroked a hand over his coverts[1], smoothing a few that had got disarranged when the coat dragged over them. John suppressed a shudder of reaction. "That... that was ridiculous," he got out. He fell back against the wall. "The most ridiculous thing I've ever done."  
  
Sherlock leaned against the bannister. "And you invaded Afghanistan."  
  
John can't help it – the relief, the thrill, the sheer ludicrousness of what they've just done bubbled up in a giggle. Horus, he'd flown. And how he'd flown! He briefly savoured the memory – the heavy beating of wings to get over buildings. The quick darting turns, his sinews straining. The way he'd angled to skim sideways between eyries built too close together, his pinions brushing old bricks and concrete ledges. And just ahead of him Sherlock flew, the white and black wings a beacon leading him on.  
  
And John had kept pace.  
  
And Sherlock had just helped him with his coat. He'd preened John.[2]  
  
John's laugh was so infectious that Sherlock joined in, a wide smile creasing his face.  
  
John wiped at his eyes. "Wasn't just me doing the invading." Sherlock chuckled again. "So, not the killer. Shouldn't we be back at the restaurant?"  
  
Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, not important. It was a long shot. I was only trying to troubleshoot something."  
  
"Troubleshoot?"  
  
"You." Sherlock turned his head and bellowed at 221A's door. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will be moving in!"  
  
"Says who?" John asked, but he was smiling.  
  
"I do," Sherlock said. "The upstairs bedroom is all yours - I imagine you'll find the balcony entrance useful. Since you can apparently fly, after all."  
  
John's breath caught as Sherlock's words shaped the unimaginable into truth. He stretched, his grey-brown wings spreading until feathers brushed walls, lifting them to stroke the pinion tips against textured wallpaper. There was no tremble of over-exertion, no pain stabbing in his shoulder.  
  
He relaxed his wings again, enjoying the sensation of the muscles releasing the weight until they tucked against his sides. His cheeks were beginning to ache from the wide smile, echoed by Sherlock's. "Bloody hell. So I can."  
  
 _Sherlock_ _._ He'd found just the right lever, the one Mycroft said John needed. Sherlock pushed John, squawking, from the ugly broken nest of fear and doubt in his mind and into the freedom of the skies. Well, he’d done it by dragging him into traffic, but still. _You madman,_ he thought wonderingly, and his heart squeezed. _You brilliant, amazing lunatic._ John knew he was utterly lost.  
  
If only he could return the favour. But it was too huge, impossible to repay. He longed to re-order Sherlock's wind-tossed curls, tweak the primaries and secondaries of those gorgeous bright wings into perfect order. He wanted to feel the springy flex of snowy vanes under his fingers. Sherlock looked softened, face bright with pleasure at his own cleverness. Maybe now was the time. John straightened.  
  
"Sherlock. Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson appeared, wings drooping, a tissue twisting in her hands. "I tried to stop them..."  
  
Sherlock stiffened, head turning sharply. He turned and ran upstairs. John followed, ducking his head to avoid being flicked by Sherlock's remiges.  
  
Sherlock stormed into 221B to loom over Lestrade who sat relaxed in the old armchair, wings sprawling. _My chair_ , John thought irrationally. When had it become his chair?  
  
"What are doing? You can't just break into my eyrie." Sherlock's body was tense, wings arching like some avenging angel. John ranged himself in a defensive position beside Sherlock, wings cupped and ready to cover and protect Sherlock from this threat. His skin crawled at the number of strangers in the eyrie. _Their_ eyrie.  
  
"You can't withhold evidence. I'm not stupid," Lestrade said.  
  
"This is my _eyrie_." Sherlock's voice was furious. John felt the same, his wings twitching with the instinctive need to flare. Eyries were sacrosanct. People had to be invited in – territorial instinct demanded it.  
  
"And this is a drugs bust." Lestrade "Got a warrant and everything. Amazing thing really – we've found Jennifer Wilson's case here while we were searching."  
  
John ruffled up. "Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"  
  
Sherlock turned. He was biting his lip. "John."  
  
John tried to lean around Sherlock's wing to look at Lestrade, temper rising. How dare this Apex talk like that. Was he trying to put John off? All his instincts were clamouring for a confrontation. _Rival_. "You can search all day! You won't find anything!"  
  
Sherlock's wing cupped to block John's view, forcing him to look into his face. "John. You might want to shut up now."  
  
"Oh, come on!" John looked into Sherlock's tense face. _Oh_. "Sherlock. You...?"  
  
"What?" Sherlock's voice was defensive. _Guilty._ John's stomach dropped. Sherlock – drugs? His emotions revolved, then firmed into steely resolve.  
  
"No," he said, looking into the grey eyes. "No, you don't."  
  
No drugs, not while John was here. John would not let Sherlock endanger himself in that way, not ever again. _It would not happen_.  
  
Sherlock's gaze flickered, his mouth parting a little. Colour touched his cheeks. He took a step back. John watched, his stance unbending.  
  
"I'm clean," Sherlock said. He spoke to Lestrade but his eyes never left John's. "I don't even smoke any more."  
  
John dropped his head in a nod, almost a bow. _Understood._  
  
"Help us properly, and I'll stand them down," Lestrade offered.  
  
Sherlock snarled, turning away from John. "So all this is was meant to bully me into cooperating?"  
  
"A bit unscrupulous," John chimed in. He wanted these people out of their eyrie, wanted Sherlock to himself. John didn't like the miserable, angry hunch of Sherlock's wings. He  throttled back the urge to stroke the tense shoulders, soothe the tightness from those incredible wings.  
  
"Fine," said Sherlock, voice sullen. "You found Rachel? Did you bring her in? I need to question her."  
  
"We found her, but there's no way to question her. She's dead. Has been for fifteen years. Jennifer Wilson's unborn child."  
  
Sherlock froze. His wings began to lift from their tight folds. "Dead...?" he breathed. "Oh."  
  
 _Here we go,_ thought John. This ought to be good. Heart lifting, he drank in the sight of his magnificent Zenith as Sherlock began to speak.  
  
~o~  
  
Lestrade looked away from Sally's irate face. The eyrie was too quiet. "Where's Sherlock?"  
  
"He's just left." Doctor Watson turned from the window, face creased with concern. "Just got into a taxi and drove off."  
  
Lestrade blew out a gusty sigh. Sally's mouth flattened out. "I knew it. We're wasting our time here."  
  
"Enough," Lestrade said. Sally shrugged a wing and stalked into the kitchen. He turned to Doctor Watson who looked lost. Lestrade shook out his wings, irritated. "Why did he have to do that?" he asked.  
  
Doctor Watson's blue eyes flashed. "Oh, because you barged into his eyrie just to strong-arm him?" His face expression set. "Even if you had the paperwork to do it."  
  
Lestrade eyed him. "I've known him five years. Sherlock has always been a law unto himself. Playing love-bird and flattering him never works to make him sweeter." A thought occurred to him. _Unlike with Doctor Watson_. Sherlock had practically preened under the Apex's praise at Lauriston Crest. Lestrade's eyes narrowed, trying to see what might attract a difficult Zenith like Sherlock to this doctor. Small but solid. A lifetime's experience was worn into the skin around the doctor's eyes, but laughter as well. Obviously he must have the patience of a saint. Attractive enough in his own right.  
  
 _So that's the way the wind blows,_ Lestrade thought. He was torn between sympathy and amusement, with a touch of jealousy. Sherlock was a looker, but - no. Lestrade had known him too long. _You poor b_ _astard._  
  
It occurred to Lestrade that he'd done the doctor no favours this night, what with barging in on a courtship in process. The Apex probably thought Sherlock had left because of his own failure to defend the nest. Instincts were treacherous bastards.

Lestrade turned and shouted, "All right, people, that's it for tonight." He was rewarded by seeing some of the tension leave Doctor Watson's shoulders. He spoke conversationally. "You know, I put up with him because I'm desperate. He's brilliant and impossible. But one day, if we're all very lucky, he may be tolerable."  
  
The eyrie was emptying. Lestrade buttoned his coat, nodded at the stairs to the second floor. "May I? Got to fly back to the Yard, do reports."  
  
Doctor Watson looked at the computer with its empty map on-screen and back to Lestrade. He circled his arm in a be-my-guest gesture.  
  
"He'll be back," Lestrade said. He bowed. "Sorry to have spoiled your evening, Doctor Watson." He gave a half-wink and bounded up the stairs before the doctor could say anything.  
  
~o~

 _Roland-Kerr Further Education College. January 30th, 2010_  
  
"You're moulting," Sherlock said.  
  
He faced the Falcon taxi driver, Jeff Hope, across the polished table. Between them rested two small bottles, each with a capsule.  
  
"And?" asked Jeff. "Everyone moults."  
  
"Yes, but you're wearing a mating band. A mate would never let her partner's wings get into such condition - she'd preen you, straighten you out. Obviously you live on your own and there's no one to help you."  
  
Jeff's hand moved to cover the worn gold band on his wrist. Sherlock rested his fingertips together and tapped them against his lips. "More interesting is the photo on the dashboard of your taxi. It's torn, showing two children. If the mother was dead, she'd still be there."  
  
Jeff's mottled brown wings stirred but he said nothing. Sherlock went on, "The photo is old but the frame is new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father."  
  
Jeff looked away, his thin lips compressed in pain.

Sherlock rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. "The old story," he said. "She found a new mate. She took the fledglings but you love them and it hurts. But there's more to this story, isn't there?"  
  
Jeff glared. Sherlock waited, shrugged his wings. "Your shirt - recently laundered, of excellent quality, but you've lost a good deal of weight recently. Your pallor suggests illness. And a genius like you, driving a taxi? What is up with that? No, you had a high-paying job, likely a trader in the Stock Exchange, quite a coup for an East End lad."  Sherlock's eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. "Is that why she left you?"  
  
"Because I drive a taxi now?"  
  
"No, because you are dying."  
  
"We're all dying, Mr. Holmes. Some of us sooner than others," Jeff said pointedly.  
  
"Your mate is a traditionalist, isn't she," murmured Sherlock. "The female bears, the male provides. That was your role and when you told her the news, she immediately found another mate. Someone stronger who would provide for her and the children. Someone who wasn't a dead man gliding."  
  
Jeff bared his teeth in a grin. "The way of the world, innit? It's cancer. Riddled with it, only a few months to live." His wings flexed in an angry movement. "So she left."  
  
"Yet you still wear the band. But this isn't about her, at all, is it, this little killing spree. The victims - all mated, all of them with children..." Sherlock's eyes sharpened at the self-loathing that crossed Jeff's face. "Yes, even the Zenith Tiercel, young Jimmy. Did he tell you he was bearing a child? Ah. I see he did. All of them had families and yet you forced them to their deaths."  
  
Jeff drummed his fingers on the table. "I had my reasons."  
  
"Your reasons," said Sherlock. "The police are of the opinion that it's a hate-crime. They're wrong. I know it's not. Revenge is hot and irresponsible and you've conducted yourself with a cool prudence." He tilted his head at the Falcon.

"I didn't hate them, no." Jeff swallowed, throat clicking. "It was bad luck, them being all family people."

Sherlock nodded. "Which brings us to your motives. It's love that spurs you on. Your children. You are protecting them, providing for them even now."  
  
"As you say, Mr. Holmes," Jeff said, head lifting. "It was my role. Even if my mate chucked me out."  
  
"Why do your children need protection? They have their mother, her new mate," Sherlock asked, then answered himself. "Blackmail. You are a convenient target."  
  
Jeff's wings drooped, his voice hoarse. "My... sponsor. Do his business for him, or my fledglings get it. He's got me boxed in until I die."  
  
Sherlock's eyes flicked over the two bottles with their deadly contents. "Hence the game. You want to die. A fifty-fifty chance of death each time you play. Amazing you've made it this far."  
  
"What can I say, Mr. Holmes." Jeff pressed fingers to his eyes then looked at Sherlock, bleakness stamped into the lines of his face. "Horus hates me."  
  
"Tell me the name of your sponsor," pressed Sherlock. "I can help."  
  
Jeff shook his head. "No, Mr. Holmes. You can't. You can only play the game. Don't try to talk me 'round."  
  
Sherlock saw the resolution in Hope's shoulders. It was clear the man was more afraid for his children's sake then he was afraid of dying. Sherlock sat back.  
  
"Well, driving a taxi is an excellent cover for a serial killer. Even though it's a criminal waste of a mind like yours."  
  
~o~  
  
John rubbed his face. He was leaden with fatigue and disappointment. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone. He obviously didn't want John. John had misread the signals, fucked it up somehow. Maybe it was time to cut his losses.  
  
The computer bleated. A red dot was blinking as it moved on the map. _Sherlock_. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Sherlock had found the killer, was with him this moment. The realisation was a fist in John's stomach. His shoulders were pinching, his wings rising for battle. Where?  
  
The dot stopped moving and pulsed. _Oh, Horus_. John fumbled, dragged the cursor over it. Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He clicked satellite view, zoomed in to look at the building's shape. Clicking again, he zoomed out until Baker Street was shown on the map. His eyes skipped between Baker Heights and the college, measuring and memorising as he'd been trained to do in the Army. _One more thing_. He dug out his phone and took a picture of the screen. The dot was still stationary.  
  
That was good. It was also very bad.  
  
John touched the shape of his gun, concealed at the small of his back under the long jumper before he turned and ran.  
  
~o~  
  
Jeff Hope pointed the gun at Sherlock Holmes' head. The Zenith Tiercel rolled his eyes and Jeff felt a flicker of satisfaction. No, this Sherlock Holmes was no idiot.  
  
"You could at least threaten me with a real gun. That's a novelty lighter."  
  
Jeff lowered the gun. "Worked on the others."  
  
"Clearly I am not on their level." Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Well, it has been interesting. I look forward to the court case."  
  
"Why?" asked Jeff. "The police aren't coming. You never called them. And by the time they find me, I'll be gone - one way or another."  
  
"Is this where you plead for my sympathy on behalf of your children?" Sherlock looked down his nose at him.  
  
"Oh, I don't expect mercy from you, Mr. Holmes. I know better. Because we both know I can't stop killing. There's no mercy. We're killers. Our type don't deserve mercy." Jeff wasn't giving up yet. He had to hook this clever Zenith back into the game, or his sponsor would take his children.  
  
"I'm not a killer."  
  
"You're killing me just by walking out the door."  
  
"You're a dead man regardless. How does this make any difference to me?"  
  
"It doesn't, except for one thing: you'll never know."  
  
Sherlock stopped, his hand on the door knob. Jeff went on, "Which bottle was the right one? Which would you have picked? Come on. _Play the game_."  
  
Sherlock turned and swiped one bottle up from the table. Jeff smiled. He stood, opening his own bottle, still talking, his voice dropping to a hypnotic drone. "I bet you get bored, don't you? Life gets so boring, nothing new, nothing interesting, no puzzles."  
  
There was a flicker of movement beyond their reflections in the window. Jeff blinked but it was gone.  
  
"Such a clever Tiercel. What's the point of being so clever if you can't prove it? No one takes you seriously. No matter what you do, the world sees just another dim-witted flier."  
  
Jeff saw the Zenith Tiercel begin to tremble. He lifted his capsule, encouraging. Those were the rules. They'd do it together. Jeff Hope played a fair game. "And this is what you're really need, isn't it? To prove yourself. So show me. Did you pick the good bottle?"  
  
Sherlock lifted the capsule to his mouth. Jeff followed suit. His small brown wings tightened against his back. Almost there. Almost. Surely this would be the end.  
  
"Show me you're a _proper_ genius," Jeff whispered. The capsule was nearly touching his lips. He thought of small faces in a fading photo. Jeff was more than ready if tonight his time was up. He'd killed to protect them, would do it again and not regret his choice. Jeff opened his mouth, then his jaw slackened. His eyes widened at the sight of a man drifting down past the window. The man's hair was wind-ruffled, his expression ferocious. He held a gun, muzzle tracking his target as he dropped in slow motion.  
  
 _Mercy_ , Jeff thought. _Finally._  
  
There was a flash and a sudden terrible pain bloomed in Jeff Hope's chest.

 

 

* * *

 

[1]Feathers - Main feathers referenced in this story are: Remiges, the long feathers at the bottom of the wing. Of remiges, or flight feathers, there are primaries, the ones at the outermost tips. They are the longest feathers. There are also secondaries, shorter in length than primaries. Coverts are the short, smooth feathers that cover the top underside and outside of the wing.

[2]Preening - the reordering and smoothing of feathers with a beak. Typical courtship and mated pair activity for raptors.


	3. The Courtship of Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last piece of the case, and finally! Back to the Phoenix Palace and John and Sherlock on the edge of a momentous choice.
> 
> Please return your seat to its upright position and thank you for flying with us today, I hope you will enjoy the flight.

_Roland-Kerr Further Education College, January 30th, 2010_

Sherlock sat on the wheeled stretcher cross-legged and wings dangling, careless of the scuff marks his shoes were leaving on the clean fabric. His brain buzzed with speculation. Jeff Hope had gasped out one name before he'd died under Sherlock's hands as he'd pressed on the man's wound: Moriarty. His sponsor, obviously, but who was Moriarty? And the mysterious shooter? Sherlock had seen nothing when he'd scrambled to the window. Wrapped in an orange blanket, his restless fingers twiddled with the edge.  
  
Lestrade strode towards him, expression satisfied.  
  
 _Pleased with the night's work, none of which he contributed to_ , Sherlock thought in irritation. He burst out, "Why do I have this blanket? I'm not in shock!"  
  
"Yeah, but a few of the guys want to take pictures," Lestrade grinned. "So. The gunman?"  
  
"Who says I have anything to give you?"  
  
Lestrade only looked at him. Sherlock sniffed.  
  
"Fine. So – the bullet dug from the wall is from a hand gun. The shot passed my wings very closely but caught Hope in his upper chest. A kill from that distance without grazing me – that's true marksmanship. Whoever the shooter was, he had a steady hand and qualms about hurting an innocent bystander, so a strong moral principle. But more than that, there's the trajectory." Sherlock swung his feet over the side of the stretcher and stood.  
  
"What about it?" Lestrade asked. His pencil poised over a notepad.  
  
"Judging from the hole in the window glass to the one in the wall, the shot must have come from the left, angling up slightly. If you look at the building opposite you'll see that the windows are..." Sherlock looked around the scene. He saw John standing behind the police tape watching him, his grey wings tucked meekly behind his back. "...inconveniently located for such a shot..."  
  
John blinked at him and turned his head away. _Oh._ A queer feeling turned in Sherlock's stomach. He felt a sudden pressing need to go to John. Now.  
  
"Sherlock?" Lestrade was watching him.  
  
Sherlock snapped his attention back. "But it's not impossible. Have your people check for fingerprints. I'm sure something will turn up." He bundled the blanket onto the stretcher and began to walk away.  
  
"Where're you going?" Lestrade demanded. "I still have questions!"  
  
"Oh, what now?" Sherlock turned in irritation, wings flicking. "Can't you see I... I'm in shock! Look!" He flung an arm at John. "Doctor Watson's come to take me home. He'll look after me."  
  
Lestrade eyed him. "Shock. All right. We'll bring you in tomorrow." He waved Sherlock away with his notebook, something suspiciously like a smile on his face. "Off you go. Give my regards to the Doctor."  
  
Sherlock nodded and turned to John, a migrating traveller finding its way home.

~o~

  
"Well," John said. "Dreadful business, I hear. Two pills? I'm glad you're okay." He looked into Sherlock's impassive face.  
  
Sherlock bent his head close to John's. "Nice shot."  
  
"Er, yeah. Must have been. Through the window and all."  
  
"Well, you'd know." Sherlock's voice dropped low, eyes fixed on John's face. "Since you happened to be flying by at the time."  
  
John cleared his throat and looked about. No one was near. "It was a controlled gliding descent actually."  
  
"Impressive," murmured Sherlock. John's ears burned. "The gun?"  
  
"Thames. Had a bit of time to...er. I had some time to wait for the police, so I took a quick detour."  
  
"Are you all right? You have just killed a man," Sherlock pointed out. He was still scrutinising John's face.  
  
"Well..." John didn't know what to say. _You left me behind, but I followed you. You needed me. I was there. I_ _shot_ _a man tonight._ _Do you understand?_  
  
 _I_ _'ll_ _protect you._  
  
His wild instincts were rising, beating in time with his blood. Horus, he hoped Sherlock would accept him. Going by the faint flush on Sherlock's high cheekbones, there wasn't much time left. Sherlock's breeding season was ready to start.  
  
John settled on, "He wasn't a very nice person."  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Extenuating circumstances."  
  
"Doesn't excuse how he killed four people and nearly finished you." John’s wings twitched. He was still jittery at how close it had been. Horus, just five minutes later... He didn't want to think about it.  
  
"Was never going to happen. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Sherlock's small quip warmed John's heart, but he shook his head.  
  
"No, you didn't. You had no idea I would follow you. But you really should've." _I'd follow you anywhere._ John’s expression lightened into a smile. "You great idiot."  
  
Sherlock's answering smile was quick before he smoothed his face and tilted his head at John. "Dinner? I know a great Chinese place. Open late."  
  
"Sounds perfect," said John. His heart lifted. Feeding Sherlock - it was satisfying to his male instincts.They walked in step and each slight brush of their wings against each other had John's nerves lighting up. "I'm starving."1  
  
"Come on, then." Sherlock broke into a run, wings spreading to beat against the night breeze. John followed, the muscles in his chest pulling against the strain of lifting him up and over a shiny black car waiting outside the crime scene. The white-winged man standing beside it lifted a walking-stick in salute and John grinned.  
  
"This way, John!" Sherlock called and John winged over in pursuit.

~o~

_Phoenix Palace, January 31st, 2010_

_Fight or flight?_

Sherlock was perspiring, his body temperature rising with the driving need to take to the cold night skies. His breeding season was upon him. John stood waiting, ready to test himself in courtship flight of the Tiercels. John wanted to impress him. John hoped to pair-mate. _With me._

Sherlock jolted from his circling thoughts by movement and he stepped back a half-step, wings flaring defensively. But John was only toeing off his shoes and socks, not taking his eyes from Sherlock. Sherlock's lips tightened as John reached to unbutton the jumper plackets under his wings. He pulled the wool over his head and dropped it without ceremony.

Sherlock supposed that in a way he'd brought this on himself. Transport, he called his body. The habit of ignoring its needs was a life-time's work of repression and denial of his own sex. Despite the abuses he'd served it in the form of drugs or neglect, it had always been most regular in its seasonal demands and otherwise had never surprised him.

Till now. Damn his reproductive system, he thought. Damn nature. Damn _John._ Oh, how bitterly clear was it to him now, how the varying forces of action and coincidence had led him to this moment. Meeting an Alpha Tiercel. The eyrie at Baker Heights, a place to call his own at last. The case. Danger and feeding and now a potential mate. _John._ Sherlock had been all kinds of a fool and it had led to his going into breeding season almost three weeks early.

"Are you going to -?" John nodded at Sherlock's suit.

"Traditional, aren't we?" Sherlock sniped. "Didn't you say you were worried about being caught on camera?"

John pursed his lips at the thought. "Well. Bound to happen. No, I won't mind."

"Having the event recorded for posterity as proof you got a wing over on me?"

John's jaw clenched. "That's not how I was thinking about it. More like I've no problems about nudity after the Army." He eyed Sherlock. "And I resent you implying I need to show the world I'm your match. I'm not some moulting fledgling with no self-confidence."

Sherlock lowered his head minutely in acknowledgement.

John went on, "I suppose your brother will be watching. Will that bother you?"

"Mycroft? He'll be thrilled to think I might settle down," said Sherlock, bitter at the thought. "Not to mention the distant possibility of offspring."

John lifted a wing, working the buttons on his cuffs. "Dunno about that. Seems to me you're an adult. You know what you want. So settling down is up to you, isn't it?"

He shrugged out of his shirt and Sherlock sucked in a breath. John's upper body was admirable.  Golden skin and broad, thick shoulders perfectly proportioned to his compact figure. _Th_ _at_ _hideous_ _jumper,_ thought Sherlock. It was the perfect disguise for what John truly was – an Apex Tiercel in his prime. The dark red of the puckered scar on his shoulder only offset his beauty. It was a flaw which drew the eye to the powerful muscles supporting his large wings and giving him the strength to fly. Sherlock's stomach coiled in desire and he set his teeth in denial of his body's urges.

"But if you'd rather I just ripped the clothes from your body, I can work with that," John said. His hands went to the fastening of his jeans and paused, watching Sherlock's eyes. "Would love it, in fact."

Needled, Sherlock looked down his nose. "Presuming you're able to catch me," he retorted, then his eyes closed. _Stupid,_ _stupid!_ His season was turning him into an irrational collection of urges. He'd managed to avoid saying the words until now.

John's lips thinned at the challenge but his eyes gleamed. His hands fell away to his sides and he bowed at the waist twice.2

Sherlock nodded twice in return.

Formal acknowledgement had been made. Sherlock had accepted the flight. He had committed himself. Like or not, Sherlock was having a courtship flight.

It could potentially end in mating. Pair-bonding.

This was most emphatically not what he'd wanted when he'd invited John to move in with him. Sherlock frowned at the source of his annoyance standing bare-chested and assured in front of him. He'd been out-manoeuvred, then ambushed by his damnable urgings.

John waited, wings arched. Sherlock's lip curled and he began to unbutton his jacket. John's hands moved as well, popping the button of his jeans free. Sherlock stilled, eyes widening. So did John.

 _Oh._ "So this is how it's going to be then?" Sherlock asked. The last button loosened under his fingers and the jacket fell open, framing the pearl grey of his shirt. He reached behind to the fastenings under his wings. John flicked the tab of his zip before drawing it down slowly, pressing his palm over the bulge straining against denim. Sherlock's cheeks burned, blood singing a needy refrain in his veins. He bit his lip.

"Only following your lead. Like I have right from the start, Sherlock." John's voice was low, slightly hoarse. "Isn't that what you want?"

What he wanted? Sherlock considered. If John successfully flew him, there would be copulation. Multiple times, over the course of several weeks as they followed their biological imperatives. Sherlock drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Should John prove himself during the flight, Sherlock _knew_ he would spread himself willingly, his long-suppressed primitive side taking over. John's hands would be on his body, stroking, pulling him close. His eyes fell half-closed at the mental image of the tan body covering his own pale form. _John mounting him. Penetrating him._

The frequent sex would strengthen their pair-bond. There would be no others for either, barring terrible injury or death. It would be the end to his independence.

Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket with an angry motion. "I don't want children. I'm not ready, my career -"

"So don't," said John. "I'm not ready either. It's your body. I'm fine with that. You're the boss, you control your own fertilization.3" He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, skimmed them over his briefs and stepped free of them. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the erection clearly outlined behind cotton.

Sherlock sniffed his disdain and began to unbutton his shirt. John's mouth parted as more skin revealed itself. Sherlock felt the touch of his eyes like a caress over his skin and shivered.

 _If._ If John could catch him. Sherlock was younger, stronger and motivated. Sherlock's thoughts wove an alternative scenario. He would out-fly John, call Mycroft from a secluded place and wait out the rest of his breeding season in over-heated solitude. John wouldn't leave Baker Heights immediately, he hoped. Next February, Sherlock would take himself off to his usual hermitage and the whole issue would be avoided.

Not a perfect plan. Sherlock's instinct clamoured to let nature take its course. But instinct was not what ruled Sherlock Holmes.

"Amazing," John said. "I can practically see the thoughts whirling in your head. You're going to do your damnedest to get away."

"It's my prerogative, should your performance be unsatisfactory," Sherlock bit out. _Performance._ The word twisted hot within his belly. "There's the little matter of your impressing me with your skills before you presume to mount me." _Mount._ The heat was moving, pooling in his groin, his pseudo-penis stirring. He caught John's gaze with his own and slipped out of the shirt.

John tilted his head, reading something in his face. "What is it?"

"What about Baker Heights?" Sherlock blurted and died inside at this inanity falling from his tongue.

John's head went back. "Oh, I see. You don't want me to catch you but you want me to stay. Bit magpie-ish, isn't it, trying to keep me?" John's own cheeks were flushed. His gaze ran over Sherlock's narrow waist, his pale nipples, the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. "Don't deny it."

"I won't, then. I resent the inconvenience and necessity of bowing to nature's demands."

"It's only transport," John said. Sherlock snarled as his own phrase was turned against him. John's mouth opened in silent amusement.

"I wasn't planning on leaving Baker Heights either way. Unless you tell me to go. Been wanting an eyrie for years. And didn't you say you wanted an assistant?"

"Why are you being so reasonable?" complained Sherlock. John was _confusing_ him.  John chuckled, blue eyes crinkling in genuine amusement.

"One of us has to be and I think that's going to be my job. If I manage this flight, that is. As you have so kindly pointed out." John lifted the elastic of his briefs and pushed them past his hips where they dropped to his ankles. He kicked them away and stood, shameless, erection curving up to his right hip.

John's cock was perfect, long, dusky pink, the deep colour of the glans shining. Sherlock swallowed. That membrum virile was meant to enter Sherlock. Already he felt the ghost of John's hands strong and sure on his hips as he thrust, piercing through the cloacal membrane into Sherlock's vaginal passage. Sherlock felt a twinge as something in his lower body loosened. His traitorous body was preparing itself.

 _No. Enough_. Sherlock pulled his mind away from his body's aroused distraction. He set a foot on the overturned chair and bent to loosen the laces on his shoe. His lips pressed hard as the movement pulled his trousers tight against the swelling in front. This was becoming intolerable. How could one even think? He pulled the shoe and sock from his foot, dropped them. The roil of sexual tension would be prolonged for weeks if he didn't get away soon.

"Yes, of course an Apex would be the voice of reason at this moment." Sherlock's sarcasm nearly covered the tremor in his voice. His hands shook at their work. His wings snapped out like a white banner and dropped. He switched feet and began to untie his other shoe.

"I think you're amazing. Gorgeous, too," said John. "And you're an idiot. I want this."

Sherlock straightened. Both feet were bare, his shoe held as if half-forgotten in his hand.

"Why?"

John's expression was wry though his eyes were hot, fixed on Sherlock with raptorial intent. His wings lifted in a shrug. "You fixed my wing."

"More fool me."

"And at least I'll never be bored following you around. So if you think I'm not going to try my hardest to catch you, you're not half as smart as you think you are."

Sherlock's heart pounded a fast tempo, blood pulsing in every extremity. His fingers tightened on the shoe. "You? Catch me?" He lifted his chin. "If you can."

With a whip of his arm he flung his shoe at John's head. _Distract._ John's arm came up and he batted the shoe away hard. Sherlock leapt back as John jumped for him onto the table, dishes toppling and rolling away as he landed. Sherlock cursed inwardly. _Military-trained reflexes. Best course of action: hasty retreat._

Sherlock turned and ran for the balcony, launching himself into cold night air just as he felt John's fingers brush his trouser leg. Amazingly, John's laugh rang out and he heard the snap of his wings as he followed Sherlock over the parapet.

Sherlock folded his wings and straightened his legs in a power-dive. His body felt electric. Despite himself he felt his mouth pull into an open-mouthed grin. The outcome was literally up in the air now.

This was going to be fun.

He plunged from the top-story restaurant's balcony, calculations racing through his head. He knew London better than John. It would be simple to use his knowledge of the streets and the best up-draughts to his advantage.

The ground was rising to meet him. He arched his wings with a quick movement, cupping them to brake and correct his dive to the horizontal just five metres from the pavement. The wind streamed his hair back from the speed. Behind he heard John's wings doing the same and knew the Apex was a few metres higher than he, the better to track Sherlock's movements.

He was fast approaching Marylebone Road, a main thoroughfare built to help channel wind for gliding Falcons heading east into the City on business. A left turn meant speed, right meant height. What would John anticipate? Sherlock dropped lower, skimming just over the roof of a taxi which honked as he flashed past. Going this low was a dangerous tactic; there might be a lorry or a night-bus at the intersection. Adrenaline sang in his veins, sharpening his vision.

 _Three...two...one_... He arced his body like a fish, banking hard right. His wings spread wide, caught the draught full-on and he rocketed upwards into John's path as he echoed the same move. John cursed, back-winging to avoid a full-body collision as Sherlock shot past close enough that a single arms-length separated them. Sherlock felt John's fingers graze the tips of his remiges, trying for a grip and missing. He laughed. "You said I wasn't going to be easy!" he crowed, wings beating hard as he flew up Marylebone Road.

There was no answer and Sherlock risked a quick glance. John's expression was a mixture of both amusement at Sherlock's ploy and determination, his grey wings working as he tried to make up the distance. Sherlock hummed in enjoyment. At two in the morning there was little traffic at street-level and only a few Falcons in the air. Time for some fun.

He stooped again, aiming for a small group of late-night revellers lazily drifting with the current of the up-draught. They scattered as he flew through, their shouts following him. Avoiding them should slow John. Winging down a narrower street branching from the main road he looked back again. What he saw made him grit his teeth in annoyance.

John was still with him, not twenty lengths away. He wasn't gaining but he'd trimmed his altitude plane to match Sherlock's. Obviously he wanted to prove that any manoeuvre Sherlock was capable of, John could do as well.

 _Let's just see about that,_ thought Sherlock. He began a weaving flight, slaloming between lampposts just over the occasional pedestrian's heads, the speed of his passage whipping their hair and whirling litter into the air. He heard John shout something uncomplimentary and glanced back. John had lifted a hand to fend off a news page which had wrapped itself around his arm, but he ducked between the posts neatly and quickly.

There was a whoop from someone, a wolf whistle. "A flight! Great Roc, would you look at that! In London?" A phone's camera flashed and Sherlock blinked away the spots in his vision. _Idiots_. Best get away to a less-populated area. He recalled his mental maps. Hyde Park, then. He'd use a circuitous route that would test John's agility.

Sherlock gained a touch more altitude and began his run, ducking down narrow streets, timing his turns at the last possible second to throw John off his path. His pectoralis and gluteal muscles burned as he concentrated on making precise movements, wings and body stretching and curving. His great primaries and secondary feathers spread and cupped the sharp night air with each swoop. He drew in deep breaths, intent on reaching his goal. _There._

He burst into open air just over the Marble Arch entry to Hyde Park. Wings opening into a glide, he looked back over his shoulder for his pursuer.

John was still with him. Worse, John had gained a few body lengths in the chase. The lights of the Arch painted his nude body and the underside of his wings a pale gold as he glided over and angled to follow Sherlock. Sherlock's stomach tightened, his body reacting both to the sight and the dawning understanding of John's skills. His teeth worried at his lip. _Focus._ Time for another test.

He shifted his gaze forward, drew his arms in to his sides and beat hard. The acceleration took him over grass and trees at a rate that had them blurring.

The black waters of the Serpentine were just ahead when he felt a tug at his trouser leg. With a cry he kicked out, freeing himself, tumbling until his wings caught the rhythm again, twisting up and away.

John was laughing as he climbed next to him. "You should have taken those off," he called. He ducked close and Sherlock slapped at him with a wing, fending him away. They both hovered, circling. John's eyes were bright, cheeks flushed from the thrill of the chase. "How am I doing?"

"You managed to keep up," Sherlock allowed. In fact, John had done better than that – he'd beaten Sherlock at horizontal pursuit.4 New information. Useful.

John shook his head. "You never let up, do you? Well, I'll give you the chance now to get your kit off. I wouldn't want you to be at a disadvantage."

"You mean, give you a minute to catch your breath," Sherlock retorted. His hands went to his trouser fastenings and he slipped them off over his briefs, winging hard to maintain position.

"Don't chuck them at me," John said. He looked disappointed that Sherlock hadn't relinquished the last piece of clothing protecting his modesty. Or immodesty – Sherlock was achingly hard.

"Wouldn't dream of it." The trousers fluttered away into darkness.

John's grey-brown wings stroked the air in even beats as he watched Sherlock. "Are you satisfied yet?"

Sherlock had underestimated him. But the game wasn't over yet and there were ploys Sherlock still had not used. He would escape. Or John would prove himself. It still remained to be seen.

Sherlock gave him a bright grin, fierce and unbowed. "Not yet, John."

And he began to climb, pushing himself into the night sky.

~o~

_Over Westminster Borough – Hyde Park to Soho, 31st of January_

John threw all his strength into powerful thrusts of wings against air to propel him after Sherlock fast as possible, trying to gain on him. Sweat dampened his hair and chilled against his over-heated skin. Sweet Horus, but the Zenith was fast! John had never seen a wingspan like Sherlock's before. _No, no, got to keep up!_ But in spite of all his efforts Sherlock was staying ahead.

With no warning Sherlock rolled, primaries folding together to points and wings bending back. His arms flattened to his sides and he stooped in a plummeting dive. John flapped and dived after, but his wings weren't built for this. He had to control his descent, there was no way he would be able to pull out of a stoop that fast without wrenching something. Or crashing. _Don't think about that now._ He groaned and let his wings spread just enough to slow his plunge into something less suicidal.

Down they plunged, the distance between them growing. John's heart squeezed. All Sherlock had to do was repeat this a few more times, dolphining in and out of London's airspace and he'd have enough headway to escape. John had got too cocky after catching Sherlock in the park.

The lights of the thin spires of Soho were rising to meet them. _Surely he wasn't going to -?_   But Sherlock was. He fell between the buildings like a stone before cupping his wings to brake and begin rising again, white body and wings illuminated by lights. John threw his wings wide, hoping to cut across and shorten the distance. He had fallen well behind now, at least fifty lengths. "Oh Horus damn it," John breathed between his teeth. "Damn you, you great beauty." The extraordinary white wings moved with easy strength, pulling Sherlock away from him.

His focus on Sherlock was so narrow that John almost missed the small dark figure detach itself from a balcony ahead, dark wings spreading with a crack. It moved unbelievably fast, darting between John and Sherlock with a nimble roll.

John's eyes dilated, heart in his throat. _Rival. Horus, no_. "Sherlock!" His voice cracked with the force of his shout. Sinews straining, he flew faster.

~o~

Sherlock looked back at the faint shout, anticipating seeing John some distance behind. Instead, his view was blocked by a small dark man wearing a white dress shirt and black trousers. The colours complemented dark grey wings speckled with white. Two suitors. Two pursuers. His primitive side was darkly gratified; another part was calculating his diminished chances of complete escape.

Sherlock threw himself into a turn between buildings. The interloper banked easily, cutting the corner and bringing himself beside Sherlock. He rolled and came up beneath, flying upside down and grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock gritted his teeth. His chest muscles were beginning to ache, his breath coming hard. The new suitor was fresh, his reserves barely tapped and had all the nimbleness of his size. _Show-off_ , said his conscious mind. _Agile_ , murmured his seething instinct. _Fast._ The man twisted, dipped and twisted up. The wind pressed the shirt against his chest, revealing the bindings under the white cotton. A feminine Apex, presenting as masculine. Unusual. _Mate?_

“Hope you don't mind my joining you,” the other called. His voice was as high as a boy's. "I've been watching you for a while. And then, oh! My Twitter feed just exploded right now with the reports! Didn't want to miss this dance."

 Sherlock thrust away his body's conflicting demands and replied as well as he could between pants. "And you... don't mind... stacking the odds."

The man barrel-rolled, cutting in front of Sherlock's flight path and causing him to lose the rhythm of his wing beats. The man grinned again, white teeth bright in a pointed face. "Only want us to be together. Like fate, meeting you at a time like this. Just when you needed me most."

Where was John? A quick glance showed empty air. Sherlock felt uneasy. John was at least a known quantity. This Apex was an unknown variable, a complete stranger. A needle-thin alarm pierced the haze of his body's demands. Something was not right, this was too great a coincidence. Sherlock slowed, letting himself drop in altitude as if tired. He drifted towards the old concrete of a wide window ledge, wings barely moving.

The man oohed. "Here? Gracious! What if we wake the neighbours?" He mimed shocked surprise but his eyes were bright and hot.

Sherlock let his head drop in seeming exhausted capitulation. "I... don't even... know you."

The interloper glided closer, wings cupping to land lightly, hands reaching for Sherlock's. "Call me Jim, sweet thing."

"I think _not_ ," said Sherlock. His wings cupped, his feet touched the ledge, and his legs bent to take his weight. Sherlock sprang and drove himself back and away, his body a projectile returning in the direction it had come. _Back, back. Get away._

Jim shouted and exploded from the ledge, his wings a flurry of movement. Sherlock winged hard sideways but his pursuer was too quick. In a few heartbeats he had cut in front of Sherlock again, wings spread to block his way. Sherlock snarled and swung a fist but found his punch deflected, his wrist caught in a grip which dug nails into his flesh. Jim yanked. Their wings beat and flailed together. His face was close enough to Sherlock's that he should see himself reflected in black eyes. Jim grinned.

"Got you."

 

* * *

**Footnotes:**

1A reason a female falcon needs a mate is as a provider during nesting. A female that hunts risks cracking developing eggs within. Any tackling, colliding with or crashing into prey may damage eggs or the tissues of the ovaries. Also, defensive manoeuvres by prey may do the same.

2One of the parts of the courtship behaviour of falcons is bowing, head low. Using it as a formal understanding here that the flight would take place seemed a natural progression in a civilised culture.

3Raptor females have an aspect of control over their own fertility. Certain circumstances need to be met before they will ovulate. They need to have had sufficient food, be in good health and have a mate that has impressed them with their fitness. They need a territorial place to nest - the male may help carve this out as a way to impress and drive away rivals. When mating, sperm can be collected into sperm host glands near the vagina and shell gland. There, the sperm can be stored from 10 days up to two weeks and remains viable. The sperm can be squeezed from the glands to travel up the oviduct and fertilise an ovum. In the case of a sub-dominant male mounting a female, the sperm can be ejaculated. Incidentally, while most avian females have only one functioning ovi-duct, the _falco_ species have two working sets, though it is usually only the left side that works. This is partly due to the need for less ballast in a flying machine, and also because when alighting with a jolt, two eggs developing side by side may jostle and crack.

4The Saker falcons are hunters of open grasslands and cliffs and are skilful at horizontal pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I KNOW. How can it be Omegaverse when there's no forced pregnancy, oh gosh.  
> But I did say it was only loosely O-verse, that I would turn it on its head.
> 
> There will be one more climactic chapter after this.  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you are enjoying your flight!


	4. The Flight of John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fight and a flight. Hope you enjoy!

_Soho, January 31st, 2010_

 

He'd lost Sherlock.

John was frantic, his head swivelling as he swooped and quartered. No good. He'd have to go high. John began the climb to get above the buildings when he caught the flickering of wings down a street. He turned, but his exhalation of relief strangled in his throat as his eyes took in the scene.

White wings and grey thrashed together as Sherlock and the interloper struggled mid-air. _Oh, sweet Horus. He's not -? I'm too late._

John's heartsick jealousy changed to horror as he saw Sherlock's arm being clutched by the other man. Sherlock twisted and threw himself sideways, ripping at the man’s clutch with his free hand as he moved the trapped arm in circular motion. The hold broke and Sherlock dropped away, pivoting hard, pinions almost bending with the force of his wing beats. The attacker shouted something and tucked his wings, darting with incredible nimbleness to cover Sherlock's large frame from behind. Their wings tangled and beat together in a terrible medley of dark and white feathers. An arm snaked around Sherlock's throat, forearm against his windpipe and squeezing, demanding submission as the man's head bent to exposed neck and bit. Sherlock shouted. The man's hand clawed at the elastic band of the black briefs Sherlock wore, pushing them down over his hips.

That was no mating flight. No suitor would ever court a Zenith in such a manner. Everything in John revolted at the obscenity – instead of coming as a supplicant to prove himself, the interloper was trying to seize that which should be given. _Forcing a pair-mating. With Sherlock_. It was anathema.

John's vision tunnelled as he tried to close the gap. His tiredness and fear for Sherlock dropped away, replaced by something much more volatile. _No. Not going to touch him._ His hands balled into fists.

Sherlock was not proving easy prey. He was kicking, trying to elbow his small attacker to no avail. The briefs were yanked to mid-thigh, tangling his legs. Sherlock's head ducked then snapped back, forcing the other to loosen his grip or have his nose broken. The gasp of a quickly-indrawn breath was loud before the arm began tightening again. Sherlock's hands came up, grasped the other's wrist and began twisting it, torquing it away from his neck. A powerful thrust of his wings and he broke away and dived. The man rolled to follow.

 _No_.

John was there, blocking the way, wings spread in full offensive mode. He spared a quick glance to the side. Sherlock had landed on a ledge and was sagging against the bricks, coughing as he rubbed a spot of bright red on his neck. The briefs had fallen down completely and garlanded one ankle.

 _Safe, hurt but safe. Good._ John let his anger roll up and through him and the battle was joined.

His rival feinted left, intent on getting to his prey. John batted at him with both wings, kicking out at the man's chest but missing. Close up he saw that his opponent was even smaller than himself, with small, sharply angled wings. Their manoeuvrability was superior to John's own broad spread, he knew. The man dropped away from the fierce buffeting and in a fast move that left John unprepared, circled up and over to deliver a heel-kick to John's face. John's head snapped back hard, a burst of pain whiting his vision. His mouth abruptly filled with blood as his lip split on his teeth.

The man snarled, dark eyes burning. "He's mine! Not yours!" John lunged and missed, the other deftly back-winging and rolling to come up with one hand holding a small pistol.

 _Horus_. John had no breath to reply. He twisted, the bullet singing through his tertial vanes, white-hot pain a poker laid against his lower ribs. _Grazed, surface damage only, thank Horus_. Too close – a gun in a mating flight, was the man insane? He rushed him, hands automatically moving to deflect and disarm. The weapon fell away but John received stinging parallel scratches on his chest as the other tore at him. John hissed and shoved him off. The blood was a warm trickle on his chest and the graze burned with each wing beat. Dimly he heard windows and balcony doors opening, someone's scream.

The man's face was feral, smiling with lust and rage. _He's too_ _fast,_ John thought. Again his opponent darted and John felt a hand slip through his primaries before he jerked his wing away. Lost or broken remiges would cripple his flying ability. The courtship flight would be over.

He'd lose Sherlock.

A series of images flashed through John's head. Himself, wings broken and falling as the stranger laughed. Sherlock accepting the other. _Impossible_. The dark man's hands on Sherlock's white skin, bruising. Mounting Sherlock, seizing his prize by force.

 _Never_. John's anger crystallised into relentless purpose.

He dropped down and away, changing the angle of the man's attack. Muscle memory forged by years of training in the Army came to the fore. John let his surface thoughts drop away and used the tools he'd been given. He dived, leading the danger away from Sherlock. Then he snapped out his wings and jackknifed to reverse his flight, ascending in a tight spiral back to meet the man head on.

_Intercept and trap._

The other back-winged frantically but John fell on him, hands clamping the man's upper arms to his sides. He used his the full force of his greater weight to bear his rival back until they hit the wall of a building. The man's head snapped back and smacked the bricks with a dull thud but his black eyes were blazing, teeth bared. Dark wings flailed, buffeting John's own as they began to slide down together.

"Fuck this," John spoke through the ice around his rage. "How dare you." How dare he intervene in John's courtship flight, how dare he lay hands on Sherlock. _How dare he._

_Disarm. Incapacitate._

He released his left hand. His rival immediately grasped at John's marginal coverts, fingers digging in and tangling with the intention to tear them away. John didn't hesitate. He punched the man hard, twice, in the solar plexus. The other choked, legs drawing up, wings flapping as he tried get his breath. His hand fell away. John let him go, dropped back and snapped a short kick to the man's side, aiming for the kidneys. The other's air hissed out of him, his eyes rolling up. The dark wings trembled, faltered, curled in. He began to lean out from the wall, no longer aware of his surroundings.

John had the momentary temptation to just let him drop to his death. _No, not good_. His fury still beat behind his eyes but was encased in the cold knowledge of necessity.

_Render incapable of pursuit._

His right arm shot out and he shoved the man against the wall again, two fingers curling dangerously into his suprasternal notch, constricting the man's windpipe. With his left hand he grabbed, pulled and let a handful of greater coverts drift from his fingers. A fistful of secondaries came free with a hard yank. The man inhaled a pained noise, a leg feebly kicking. John kept tearing, fingers cramped with effort. The tenth and ninth primaries span away. Long feathers had their spines snapped, bending out at crazy angles. John's breath hissed through gritted teeth. _Enough._ It had taken only a few moments.

"...kill you." The words were squeezed out. John looked at his rival in blank astonishment. He still wanted to fight? "Mine. He's mine. You... not a match for him."

John did not have _time_ for this. Sherlock was out there alone. "You can't have him," he rasped. He looked around. _There_. Just below a large veranda-style balcony with tables protruded, probably a restaurant.

He grasped the man under his arms and spread his wings, muscles straining slightly under the dead weight. He glided until he was a few metres above and dropped his burden. The dark wings opened but with only one working, the man fell heavily to the marble. His wings sprawled gracelessly and he curled into a foetal ball. John heard shocked exclamations from watchers. Someone called out a question but John only swept away, head up, scanning for Sherlock. The wounds throbbed on his chest and his mouth hurt like the blazes. He turned his head and spat blood.

He spotted a patch of black on a grey ledge – yes, those were the briefs Sherlock had been wearing, now discarded. John swept past and scooped them up. The cloth was soft and cool and unlike their owner, within his grasp. His grip tightened.

A camera flashed below and he gave the voyeur a two-fingered salute. Sirens were wailing in the distance – someone must have reported the gunshot. But no one ever interfered in fights between rivals for a mating, only waiting for a winner to emerge and a loser to be taken to hospital. “Hey! Suitor!” John looked up. The blonde head of a Falcon looked over the edge of her balcony, wings peeping behind her. “That way.” She pointed and gave him a thumbs-up.

John craned his neck and saw the dim shape in the night sky. “Thanks,” John called. Sherlock was going high, wings treading a smooth rhythm as he spiralled skyward. Now it was a test of stamina, John thought – go to where the air was thin and outlast your pursuer. John had been flying or fighting the whole time, but Sherlock had had a brief respite on the ledge. He remembered Sherlock's ease in ascension earlier, the absurd spread of wing. If Sherlock repeated his trick and stooped from such a height, John would never match him. He needed to prove his fitness as a suitor another way.

John's hand tightened once more on the black fabric before letting it fall away. A laugh escaped him. _Sherlock,_ _you have no idea_ _._

The game was still on.

~o~

_Soho to parts unknown, January 31st, 2010_

 

Sherlock was committed.

Committed to flying away. Fleeing, in point of fact.

His wings went through the motions economically, preserving his remaining strength for climbing above the city for his final escape.

There was little logic in his decision. With what small part of his mind not wound up with the command _fly fly fly_ , he acknowledged the fact.

He'd waited until the last moment. He had been on the ledge, gasping for air, watching Jim attack John with amazing speed. Frozen, he'd been torn between the desire to flee and the fascinated need to watch the outcome of the battle. His primitive side longed to see which suitor would claim him.

Sherlock inhaled sharply when the man's kick struck home and blood began to run down John's chin. He crouched on the ledge, intent as the dark-winged man and the grey circled and feinted.

_John has no chance. John is older. Tired._

Sherlock was wrong.

In a sudden burst of movement John dispatched his enemy with brutal efficiency that shocked and thrilled Sherlock to the core. The golden shoulders flexed as he used his hands to drive the breath out of his opponent. _He killed a man for me tonight,_ whispered a dark voice. _See what he's willing to do for me? Strong. Mate. Don't you want all_ _of him_ _for yourself? Don't you want?_ It was terrible and satisfying to witness, his entire body clenching with a resounding _YES._

But against the dark throb of instinct was another voice protesting, a part of him that shuddered in fury against the abhorrent touching he'd been subjected to. It had been possessiveness contorted into something hideous. _This was why you always fly alone, why you never allow yourself to be attached._ Primitive emotions – his attacker had been disfigured by them. The tooth-marks in his neck throbbed in reminder.

 _Look at John._ The Apex Tiercel was nearly unrecognisable, his mouth drawn into a snarl as broken feathers drifted around him, blue eyes blazing. The still-rational part of Sherlock's mind rebelled.

 _\-- But John said he wouldn't_ – the arm cutting into Sherlock's windpipe, fingers insinuating on his hip – _John's protecting me, he_ – won't be independent any more – _proved himself, take him take him_ – teeth in his flesh, trying to claim -

Stop, stop stop _stop_. Sherlock couldn't stand this, the inner conflict was utterly destroying his equilibrium. His blood sang, body throbbing its siren's song for a mate. _Stop it_. He needed distance. He needed to think, why was he not able to _think?_

Down the street, John picked up his rival by the armpits. Sherlock didn't stay to watch any more. Icy fingers of panic trailed down his spine while hunger burned within. It was too much.

He fled.

~o~

_Over the city of London, Embankment, January 31st, 2010_

In through the nose, out through the mouth, over and over, deep sustained breaths. John's wings rose and fell in an accelerated flighted Army double-beat, designed for moving quickly without exhausting oneself. Below he could see the winding blackness of the Thames, bordered by the bright lights of the Embankment. Steadily he was closing the distance. Sherlock still moved in an ever-rising arc, but slower than the frantic winging he'd done to get away from Soho. Did he believe himself safely away, or was he tiring? _We'll see._

Closer. Twenty lengths.

Ten. He could distinguish the black barring on the great white wings, the nacreous shine of white skin against the inky clouds. Sherlock's chest heaved.

John's hands trembled. _So near_. He put on a burst of speed and closed the gap. Sherlock turned at the sound of his wings but John shot up and past him, trailing a hand daringly through white feathers. Sherlock made an inarticulate noise and hovered, waiting as John lazily winged a wide circle back to face him. Sherlock's full mouth was red and parted as he panted.

"Persistent," Sherlock said.

"You said, 'Catch me if you can,'" John said.

"And here you are," Sherlock retorted.

John couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. "Here I am." An answering smile flickered over Sherlock's face before disappearing.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say..." John jackknifed, dived beneath, avoiding Sherlock's warning kick. "That you are still looking for a way out."

Sherlock turned, his chin lifted. "I'm... conflicted." He looked furious at the admission. John nodded, rolled upside-down and flew beneath again, his fingers passing over a slim calf and a foot sole.1 Sherlock yelped and kicked uselessly again.

John continued his slow glide around Sherlock, who turned to face him as he circled. "You could have told me to sod off. Back at the restaurant."

Sherlock huffed, his breath misting in the chill air. "I weighed the odds. I decided they were in my favour."

"What, because I'm older than you? Because I was injured?" Sherlock said nothing. "Yet you agreed. Whatever your reasons were -"

"I don't... John. There are reasons I prefer my single state."

"Reasons like the what happened down there?"

Sherlock was silent. John swallowed around the tightness in his throat. It felt as though he were flying through a storm – the wrong move, a word and he would be tumbling like Morning Star, cast down from Heaven. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock's voice was cautious.

"I'd never force you. That's not me." He drew a deep breath. "I meant what I said back at the restaurant. I'd stay."

There was a long pause. The only sound was their breath, the soughing of air though feathers.

"Even without – all this?" Sherlock voice was tight. He gestured at their bare bodies.

John's eyes pressed closed a moment. "Yes. I mean, it would hurt like hell. I think you're brilliant. I think we'd be amazing." His lungs were constricting.

"Hoping I'll change my mind?"

"Yes!" The shout hung in the air between them. John's hands ached with the need to touch. _You can't, don't spook him._ "But I'd wait. Until I proved myself."

Sherlock's head went back at this declaration. He barked a laugh. "Prove yourself?"

John's head jerked in a nod. Sherlock's eyes ran over him, his wings, the scar, the heavy muscles before returning to his face. John's flesh felt heated from the touch of his eyes. Oh, sweet Horus, he couldn't take much more of this. "Whatever it takes. Feed you. Watch out for you. Protect you – even from yourself. Well, aside from your idiot notions about your work, Great Roc!" He waited a beat, and then said it. "Out-fly you."

The challenge was out. Sherlock's face loosened in astonishment that shifted to disbelieving amusement. "You still think you're able to out-fly me?"

John hovered and faced him directly. He let the smile spread. "Catch me. If you can."

And he went straight up. He kept his beats even and measured, an easy pace. Sherlock flew with him. "John. This is pointless."

John said nothing. They rose higher, higher and higher still, the upper winds beginning to buffet them. Below the lights of London were pinpricks shining though a dark cloth of night. "John." Sherlock's voice sounded somewhat strained. His chest was heaving. "What are you... trying to accomplish?"

John's chest and back were being to burn with the sustained effort but he yawned theatrically. "Oh, you still here? Nothing, really. Just have a fancy to touch the clouds." He gave Sherlock a sideways glance full of provocation. "Still think you can keep up?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened. John went on, "Never got to touch clouds much while I was abroad, you know. Too dry, not many clouds." He waited, let the penny drop. "In Afghanistan."

Sherlock grimaced. "Of course." He was gasping between words. "London. Nearly sea-level. Camp Bastion -"

"Is about a thousand two hundred metres. Patrols near the Chalap Dalam range sometimes took us up to around two thousand five hundred in Helmand province." John let himself drift closer to the struggling Sherlock. Horus, the man was stubborn. Damned if it didn't make John want him all the more. "So if you were worried about my endurance..."

"Oh, shut up," hissed Sherlock. "Fine. Your lung capacity. Superior."

"Ex-smoker," John chided, but gently. "Good thing you quit. Come on." He extended a hand. "Nearly there. I'll help." He held his breath.

The grey eyes flicked from his hand to his face and back. John could see the gears clicking in that marvellous brain. He saw the moment Sherlock made his decision.

~o~

Sherlock's breathing was laboured, to his annoyance. He watched John as they climbed, the puffy lip and bloody scratches, the strong beat of his wings. John had to be as tired as Sherlock, but the effort was carefully concealed. His chest rose and fell steadily in the thin air.

John still held his hand outstretched. It didn't shake, though his eyes were dark with emotion. His throat worked as he swallowed, waiting. As if he would wait forever, as if he had nothing to lose. Utterly foolhardy, maddeningly brave, John offered everything to Sherlock to accept or refuse.

Steady. That was John, Sherlock realised.

The balance of supplication and strength, patience and humour, and challenge cloaked by impudence. Pair-mating with John - there was an edge of danger to it, the lure of the yet-unknown. John would not roll over and idly let Sherlock pick out his liver. He was... the perfect suitor. Ridiculous that he, Sherlock Holmes, had only wanted an Apex Tiercel as a convenience. The universe and Mike Stamford had done him a favour, delivering one ex-Army doctor into the lab at Bart's.

John was Sherlock's, for the choosing. Slowly his arm lifted.

He took John's hand.

John's smile was a complex revelation lighting his face. Sherlock's long fingers slid over the small, warm ones and they clasped each other's wrists. John's pulse beat powerful and steady under his fingertips. John tugged and Sherlock let himself be pulled higher, John's strength bearing him up to the clouds. _How odd,_ he reflected. Decision made, Sherlock flew yet was falling, a curious inner lassitude overcoming him, body warming as apprehension melted. The flight was reaching its conclusion.

Their wings were beating out of time. Sherlock frowned. _Inefficient_. He couldn't let John drag him like a wind-sock. He squeezed John's wrist. John, who had never taken his eyes from Sherlock's face as he pulled, opened his mouth on a question. Sherlock surged upwards, wrapping his arms around John's torso, hands splayed on the muscled back beneath the grey wings. Strong hands closed on the heated skin of his waist. _Better_ , the dark voice purred within.

"Horus, Sherlock!" John's voice sounded strained. Sherlock leaned away and looked down his nose.

"Touch the clouds, you said. Well?"

John groaned and laughed, head dropped forward. "Do you ever stop wanting everything? No, don't answer that. Hang on, flap when I do." Sherlock's arms tightened, bringing his naked body flush against John's. _Oh._ _I_ _nteresting._ John's eyes were half-closed in sensation, his growing erection pressing into Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock's insides were liquefying even as he began to harden without volition. Every tandem beat of their wings slid them together, rubbing until Sherlock's skin felt electric.

"That's it," John said in rough voice. "Come on. You great beauty." His fingers dimpled the flesh of Sherlock's waist as he pulled him against his body, encouraging. He began kissing Sherlock's neck, hot presses that bloomed sensation under Sherlock's skin. Their cocks brushed and rubbed, trapped between their bodies. Sherlock's throat contracted, a small noise escaping him. "Yes, that's it, keep going," John murmured, and Sherlock felt the touch of tongue against his jaw.

Sherlock's pulse beat in his ears, insistent. He needed more friction. Hungry, he shifted one arm to grasp John's buttocks and wrapped one leg around his waist. With this leverage he could rub harder, using the rhythm of their wing beats to push himself against John. _Oh, yes_. John's voice was a heated urging in his ear as Sherlock rocked against him. Something was winding tighter and tighter inside. His breathing quickened until he was panting, head swimming in the thin air. Urgent, he clutched harder and ground himself on John, muscles trembling as they swept higher and higher. John's fingers combed through Sherlock's scapulars where his wings joined his body, cool fingertips against heated skin. Sherlock writhed, seeking his climax. "Oh, Horus, Sherlock, that's it, _come on!_ " John said, voice hoarse and the tension snapped. Sherlock's mouth opened and he stiffened, crushing John against him. _Oh._ Lights sparked against the blackness of his closed lids. His wordless shout hung, oddly muffled in the heavy air.

His lashes lifted and Sherlock blinked, trying to refocus his vision. John was tense and trembling against him, hands roaming over Sherlock's back. Wherever Sherlock's skin didn't rest against John's he was clammy with moisture, beads of water forming and running over his over-heated flesh. Rain _?_

Sherlock looked around, light-headed. His laugh sounded relaxed, syrupy and drunk with endorphins. A dark pocket of night enclosed them – there was nothing to be seen in any direction. “Clouds.”

John's head nodded against him. “Yes. Made it." His voice was tight. "Horus, can I please - " His breath came in harsh bursts of warmth against Sherlock's sensitised skin between frantic presses of his lips wherever he could reach. They were descending in a spiral out of the clouds, both pairs of wings out-flung. "Need you, oh, Horus, I need you. But we've got to get lower, don't want you getting hypoxic – Sherlock, let me, can I?"

Sherlock unwound his leg and slid down, hands trailing over slick flesh until his head was level with John's groin. He hmm'ed in interest at his objective – thick, dusky pink, heavy with arousal. A fine specimen. His to explore. He nuzzled into it, scenting musky sweat and enjoying John's bit-off groan. He essayed a further investigation with long swipe of tongue, followed a swirl at the glans. Satisfactory. He enclosed the tip with his mouth, teasing the small slit. There was a small spurt of salty warmth on his tongue. John's hips twitched and his fingers twined into Sherlock's hair in warning. "Eros save me, enough, Sherlock!" But Sherlock took the blood-warm length once more into his mouth, tongue flattening around the underside. He took a moment to memorise the texture of silky skin over hardness before he drew off, breathing deeply. He cast a wicked look upwards, fingers flexing against John's skin.

"Fly with me?"

"You crack-brained Zenith, flying doesn't come into it. Because you're going to _kill_ me." Fine tremors of arousal were running through John's frame but he was smiling. Sherlock let go and they began to descend. Wings spread, tight muscles relaxing after their strenuous flight, they glided and pirouetted, circling in easy spirals as the lights of London rose to meet them. John dropped and flew on his back beneath Sherlock, hands sliding over his torso until his thumbs brushed nipples and flicked them. Sherlock bit his lip at the jolt of sensation. That was nice. He rolled, clasped John's wrist and drew it up to mouth and nip at the thin skin. John's breath shuddered out in a sigh. The embers of desire were kindling in Sherlock's belly once more, his erectile tissue stiffening. Stimulated by his orgasm, there was a gathering wetness in his rear entrance.

John's hand found his growing erection and smoothed up and down it, squeezing gently. _Oh, that._ Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, but he forced them open again. He had no idea what his own expression showed, but _John._ John looked wrecked, lips red, eyes dark with hunger. The sight twisted Sherlock's desire into a painful knot. He felt a tiny spark of apprehension. _It's John,_ a voice whispered, _who promised he would never force you. Your choice_. Sherlock took a deep breath, mentally dipped into the dark waters of his seething instinct and drank deeply. He let the fear go.

Sherlock tugged John's wrist, placed a last kiss on the palm. He spoke, the formal words he thought never to speak coming easily. "In flight you have caught me, Tiercel." His anticipation was growing, his lower body loosening. _Mate._

John swallowed. "Skyward, you snared me, Zenith. I'm yours." He stroked a hand down Sherlock cheek, over the livid bite mark and into his scapular feathers. "Thank you." His voice was quiet. Then in a quick movement he lifted a wing and rolled to fly over Sherlock. His hands caressed marginal coverts in a warm sweep before settling on Sherlock's shoulders. His wings angled up and back, pressing his the length of his body against Sherlock's. They both groaned at the contact, John's body heat bleeding into Sherlock. "Straighten out a bit," John instructed, voice rough and tight. "Oh, Horus, you've no idea."

Sherlock spread his wings and took them into a shallow gliding dive, the black spread of the Thames sliding away below. His skin was tingling, his body dissolving in need. One of John's arms curved around his waist as he slid a hand between Sherlock's buttocks to press a finger to his cloacal opening. "Sweet Eros, you're so wet, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock's mouth opened at the touch, wings fluttering a little as John's finger circled, testing the moisture leaking from him. _Oh, this is new._ His body instinctively relaxed to the invasion, loosening as the finger pressed within. Oh, Horus, he hadn't realised. It wasn't enough – the drive was taking over. He wanted more. "John, you have to – don't wait, John." His voice was a stranger to him. He spread his legs, offering, demanding.

John pressed his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Great Horus, do you know what you are doing to me?" Sherlock made an annoyed noise deep within his throat. John's erection was sliding in the cleft between his buttocks, utterly maddening. He flapped once, forcing himself upward into it.

"Now," he demanded. "Do it. Mate me."

John's breath huffed a laugh against his skin. "Demanding Zenith." There was a blunt pressure and Sherlock felt himself opening, his body welcoming as the broad head of John's cock slowly pressed him wide. His mouth opened in an oh of relief. _Yes,_ _this is what I need_. There was a sharp pinch as John forced his way through the initial resistance of his vaginal opening. Sherlock gasped.

John's voice was shaking. "Sherlock. Horus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sensed his lower body relaxing and moistening further to accommodate the intrusion. It was exquisite, the feeling of John's weight upon him, John's erection inside him, anchoring them together. But it was not enough. Sherlock breathed out, "More." John's arms wrapped beneath his wings and across his chest as his hips thrust in tiny shallow movements, easing his way further into Sherlock's body. The multiplicity of sensory signals were driving him mad - the brush of their wings, the caress of cool air and the demanding heat of his mate against his back as he filled Sherlock. He wanted still more, wanted John to ride him until he lost himself. "John!" He flapped again, pushing himself against the pressure and gasping as John sank still further within. The undercurrent of instinct was dragging him under.

"I've got you. Oh, you feel so good, wanted this, want you so much." John's hips twitched against Sherlock's buttocks and stilled. "Ready for more?"

"Yes! Horus's teeth, do I have to do all the work?" Sherlock would _end_ John if he didn't do something.

John choked a snort of laughter. His erection twitched and Sherlock bit back a moan at the tiny shift. "You are such a romantic. Right. Here we go." John's clasp tightened and he angled them both into a deeper dive. The air streamed by, the Thames rising to meet them. Sherlock opened his mouth to shout – protest? exhilaration? he couldn’t tell. His heart thrummed in a near-panicked tempo, his pupils dilating. The danger was intoxicating as the surface of the water grew closer, closer yet. John's voice, strained, chanted in his ear, nose buried in whipping black strands. "Now, now, _now_!"

Sherlock pulled up at the same moment John flared his wings wide, burying himself to the hilt. Sherlock couldn't hold back his shriek at the white-hot sensation, only to cry out again as John beat his wings. Each lift thrust him deep within over and over, rubbing the hidden bundles of nerves. John's hand grasped Sherlock's length as they flew, working him in time with every wing beat, each push of his hips. Pleasure was washing over him, spiralling up as they ascended. John was panting, a stream of invectives and endearments as he forced them faster. "Horus, damn it, I'm close, you beauty, gorgeous, oh please, fly for me!"

The clouds were spinning as they climbed, harder, higher. _John, John._ His body began tightening, the pleasure stooping for the final strike, a predator finding its victim. He began to shake, wings trembling. "Oh. There, John, there." The touch of John's hand on him, John's cock moving in and out was overwhelming, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. John's arm around his chest tightened and his voice broke on a hoarse shout. There was a burst of warmth as John spilled inside him. It was enough. Sherlock's vaginal muscles tightened one final time and the pleasure crashed into him and ignited his nerve endings. The night air swept his shout from his lips.

John's heart thundered against his back, hot breath panting against his back as he shuddered in reaction. Sherlock gulped air convulsively, internal muscles twitching around John's length in diminishing aftershocks. Their flight steadied into a glide. It was all Sherlock was capable of at the moment. Their infrequent wing beats stabilised and matched. They flew as one. _Instinctual synchronicity_ , Sherlock thought through the haze clouding his mind. The pair-bond was coming into effect. In future, whenever John flew Sherlock this instinct would come into play to facilitate their joining.

He felt a kiss against his spine. "Sherlock. Love. I can't fly much more," John said. Neither could he – as the exhilaration faded. Sherlock was becoming aware of various aches throughout his body.

"All right," he said, unsurprised at the husky tone of his voice.

They both groaned as John withdrew. Sherlock felt liquid warmth between his buttocks, his own natural lubrication and John's ejaculate trickling from his loosened passage. His cloacal opening felt overly sensitised, the ring of muscles twitching as though to draw John back within to fill the emptiness he'd left. Sherlock experienced an irrational pang of loss, a need to demand John mount him again, impregnate him, but he thrust it away. They'd both said they weren't ready for children. Any sperm inside would collect in the host glands near his oviducts, to be released should he wish to fertilise an egg. But that wasn't going to happen. The potential for new life would be allowed to wither within him for the time being. Some instincts could be over-ridden.

John's muscled warmth lifted away from Sherlock's back. He bit back a groan at the loss. A last caress of fingers ran over his buttocks before John dropped to glide beside him. There were smears of blood across his chest from the scratches left by the fight, but John seemed insensible to any pain they must have caused. "Where to, love? I'm serious. You've done me in." His smile was tired but so happy, Sherlock's throat tightened.

"Come on. I know a good roost a fairly easy glide from here," he said, trailing one finger along a grey quill covert. He angled his weary wings.

"This way, John."

~o~

_Palace of Westminster, January 31st, 2010_

The roost wasn't that comfortable, John thought, but the view was amazing. He sat crowded next to Sherlock, arm around his mate's waist on a limestone balustrade between two decorative ornaments. Sherlock's body against his was still sweat-damp, his temperature running higher than normal as it would throughout his breeding season. John shivered, his own body cooling after its exertions. A white wing lifted to wrap around his shoulders, enclosing him in silky warmth. John sighed in pleasure at the contact. Beyond, the city's lights picked out Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Pinnace and the dark patch of St. James' Park.

"You'd have thought they'd build a better roost for Queen Victoria," John remarked. "Hardly any place to land. Should we be up here, by the way?"

Beside him Sherlock snorted. His bare legs swung like a child's as he looked out over the city. "She was a traditionalist, despite being an Apex Tiercel, and the architects knew her preferences. Flying was not encouraged for the royal feminine gender – decorativeness was. Hence all the Gothic Revival excrescences. Typical glider chauvinism in action." His lips flattened.

"Hey." John rubbed the smooth skin, soothing. "Better times now."

"Somewhat," Sherlock agreed. "But I've always refused to bow down to idiotic social bias, either against my sex or my capabilities."

"Yeah," John replied. He understood what it was like when people wanted to believe he was less intelligent, less able to be a doctor because 'evolution' had supposedly left him behind the Falcons. For Sherlock, the old-fashioned ideas concerning the sex that bore children was yet another set-back. "It must be twice as hard for you, being a certifiable genius. For what it's worth, I think you handle it brilliantly."

Sherlock looked sideways at him. John shifted, settling his bare bottom into a more comfortable position on the stone. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking I was right. Choosing you."

John felt a burst of warmth in his chest but chuckled, squeezing Sherlock's waist. "Smug bastard. But I'm glad you did. You gave me a few bad moments."

Sherlock's head tilted. "A few?"

John's forehead wrinkled. "Yeah. Like, every time you flew off on me? At Baker Heights? Lauriston Crest?" He sighed gustily. "But at least you always came looking for me again."

Sherlock's expression was a picture. John leaned away to look at him more fully. "You mean, you didn't know? You never noticed?

Sherlock shook his head, irritated with himself. "I should have seen it."

John was unable to stop the grin that spread over his face."You're joking. How could you possibly have missed all that? The feeding? The wing flutters you gave me? I mean, I was in Afghanistan for so long I'd nearly forgotten the nuances. What was your excuse?"

John was delighted with the flush climbing from Sherlock's chest up his neck, his high cheek bones flaming. "Oh, shut up. I deleted it."

"Deleted it!" John sniggered. "Deleted courtship! Oh, Horus. Only you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed but softened. "Well, my personality is such that most suitors were deflected even before they ever tried. I never expected..." Sherlock gestured. "This. You."

John grinned. "Thanks. Less competition is fine by me. If anyone bothers you, they'll deal with me. If that's what you want."

"You would, wouldn’t you?" Sherlock mused. "Do what I want." He hummed in covetous pleasure at the possibilities.

"Oh, hang on now," John said. "Within reason. There's no need to run off to meet serial killers just because you want to prove to the world you're a strong, independent Zenith."

Sherlock had turned his head and was watching John's lips. "But you'd follow."

John swallowed. "Yes. Always." He wet his lips as Sherlock tilted, head bending towards his. His mouth twitched. "Unless I out-fly you again."

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said, with the weight of a promise, "You can _try_." Their lips met, a gentle brush that quickly deepened as Sherlock angled his mouth over John's. Long moments passed as John let himself drown in the new sensation of his pair-mate kissing him. It was all open-mouthed explorations, a tongue tracing his wounded bottom lip, small nips and sweet presses. Sherlock's hand was a warm weight cupping his jaw, his wing tightening against John's back to pull him closer. Through half-closed eyes John saw the serious, flushed expression of his mate as he investigated this novel activity as if to see what responses he could wring from John. _Brilliant bastard – he learns fast_. John felt himself begin to harden again and he groaned into Sherlock's mouth.

A jarring electronic screech made them both start and pull apart. John looked down as Sherlock's mouth widened into a wicked grin. "Busted," said Sherlock. "I wonder if my brother sent them." A police van had stopped on St. George Street and two officers looking at them with wings twitching irritably. One of them held a bullhorn.

"Attention! You two, on the Tower! You are trespassing on governmental property! Please vacate the premises immediately before charges are pressed!"

John's face burned with embarrassment even as he began to giggle. Caught snogging like teenagers on Big Ben – oh, Horus, he hoped this didn't show up on any news feeds.2 "Shit, we'd better go. Your brother won't thank us for getting off on Parliament."

"Only because he deplores territorial mate claiming outside of one's place of residence and likes to imagine that government is entirely his own area." John shouted with laughter and Sherlock grimaced. "Never mind, I don't want to think of my brother shagging on the House of Commons."

"Delete it," suggested John. "Really? Having sex all over the place to claiming the city as territory? It'd never hold up in court."3 He shook out his wings, trying to suppress another bubble of mirth. "Still, I've always been fond of London."

Sherlock gathered his legs beneath him, crouching atop the balustrade. "I, as well." He smirked at John. "How about 30 St Mary Axe tomorrow night?"

"The Egg?" John knew the building – a modern ovoid show-piece of architecture in the financial district. A thought occurred to him. "How long is your breeding season?"

"Usually a couple of weeks. With a mate?" Sherlock shrugged his wings. His eyes gleamed. "Lots of time and territory to cover this time round, I'd imagine."

John's grin equalled Sherlock's. "All right. You're on.

"Sirs! This is your second warning!" bellowed the bullhorn.

Sherlock laughed and leapt out, wings spread fully for an extended glide. "Come on, John! The best up-draughts are this way! Past time we went home.

John pushed away, dropped and spread his tired wings joyfully. Home. Baker Heights. Sherlock. All he'd wanted, more than he'd dreamed.

A few strokes and he was even with Sherlock, the tips of their pinions touching as they flew side by side back to their eyrie.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

 

 

 

1One of the more playful and aerobatic courtship displays between raptors is when one flies upside-down beneath the other, touching feet. On occasion they will pass food to the other in this fashion.

2Beaking or billing - a preening activity where falcons nibble and touch beaks. Courtship behaviour.

3Raptors have frequent copulation or shows of copulation all over their territories. There are several reasons - first is a territorial claim, showing any potential encroachers what is theirs. The second reason is for the male to show any rivals that the female is his mate. Lastly is biological imperative.

**Main raptor types referenced for this fic:**

Sherlock - Gyrfalcon, the largest of the falco family. Snow white with black barring, though rare variants include blacks and browns.

John - Saker falcon. One of the largest of the falcons, grey flight feathers edged with browns, though the balance of colouring may vary.

Lestrade - Merlin. Medium size, nimble, and slate grey in colour.

Jim - Eurasian Hobby. Small, agile, dark slate grey with white specks or bars.

Sally - Eurasian Kestrel. Unusual colouring of reddish-browns with black bars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we discover that where John is concerned, Sherlock does indeed give a flying fuck. From such crude wit was this fic born. Thanks, alltoseek!
> 
> I actually built two figures with wings from paper and glue and tape and stuck them together to figure the best sex positions. Conclusions: Face to face and clasping each other, they spiralled down like maple seed keys when thrown in the air. For actual sex, one had to lie on the other in a gliding position, wings out, rather like a paper airplane or a Star Wars X-wing fighter. Yes. I did that.
> 
> To any followers, there may or may not be a crack coda consisting of the actual story outline I first made up, with contributions from alltoseek. It reads like bizarre Cliff Study Notes of some of the first scenes of the fic. It contributes nothing to the story, it's just silliness. For all intents and purposes, this story, The Flight of John Watson, is now finished and any extra chapter is just DVD extras.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and any and all comments are appreciated!


	5. Outline - not an epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title says, this is not a CHAPTER chapter, just the Cliff Notes. Literally. When I started the story, I wrote a scene to send to my beta and because it was late and I was tired I wrote out some of the outline as it appears below, and further contributions were made by the enthusiastic and crack-loving [alltoseek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek). How it went from THIS to actual story is kind of miracle, I don't usually outline this way at all.
> 
> Never let it be said that I don't like spoofing. All fics could be summed up in crack-fic outlines, and it would be wonderful.

_scene: Barts_

  
Sherlock: *oh hey drab doctor-soldier Alpha but not aggressive cool will get brother and parents off my case but I don't have to worry about him making any untoward moves this'll be great.*  
Sherlock: 221B Baker St *winks*  
 _Sherlock leaves_  
Sherlock: Good thing he won't give me any mating hassles. Why didn't he follow me? Oh well I'll see him tomorrow.

 _back in lab_  
Mike: gosh, that was not like him.

John: wut

John: he was an arse. If I wasn't raised better...

John: you hear that shit he said

John: true but

John: wut

Mike: no, he always does that. No I meant the wing flutter, how he beckoned you closer

John: no he didn't

Mike: he did, you didn't go

John: wut

Mike: and that wink, I tell you, if I was an alpha I'd be on that like white on rice. Not like him.

John: ...

John: He's interested? In me? WTF crack you on

Mike: John boy, you been in the desert too long

John: well there are rules about treatment of Omegas not that we had any in Afghanistan. Too dangerous for them the Army says.

John: *thinking*

John: he wanted me to... provide. A phone, but still. He came closer when I wouldn't go. He winked.

Mike: now you get it

Mike: shit he's probably pissed you didn't chase him, heh heh instincts

John: ... I been away too long I missed that.

John: still there's this eyrie share lets see what's what

Mike: My work here is done

 

* * *

 

_scene: Chinese restaurant, post-case. John just shot bad guy._

  
John: Eat.

Sherlock: Not hungry  
Sherlock's body: *WRONG*  
Sherlock to body: wut

John: C'mon, I can't have you starving to death already, you haven't paid your half of the rent yet.  
John: *lifts dumping towards Sherlock's mouth*

Sherlock's body: *WANT*  
Sherlock: OK fine just one *picks own dumpling ignoring John's offer*

John: *licks lips*

Sherlock's body: *Alright here we go let's get it on!*  
Sherlock to body: wut

John: *pays bill, looks very happy*

Sherlock: wut  
Sherlock's body: *Fuck he's HOT let's GO*  
Sherlock: Oh no wait, hold on, I told you at Angelo's--

John: Thank you, I can make my own deductions, thank you.

Sherlock's body: OH YEAH THAT'S RIGHT I'M EMPTY I NEED FILLING UP FILL ME UP BB LET'S GO!  
Sherlock: wut

*restaurant manager and daughter smiling and winking*

John: Didn't realise you wanted the whole flight thing, but what the hey, I'm game.  
Sherlock: wut  
Sherlock: It's not February

*restaurant manager shoos daughter away*

John: Be hard, with the injured shoulder and all  
Sherlock: wut  
Sherlock: But it's not February. I checked and everything and it's still not February.

*restaurant manager opens balcony windows*

John: And London you know way better than me, obvs.  
Sherlock: wut  
Sherlock: I don't go into heat until FEBRUARY!

*John backs Sherlock to open window*

John: Will have to fight off everyone else, you hot sleek throbbing core of sex, you.  
Sherlock: wut  
Sherlock: IT'S NOT FEBRUARY WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT??!?!?!?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the core of the story, really. Apologies to anyone hoping for sexy epilogues. Not this time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Flighted Universe Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/900036) by [Reiya_Wakayama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama)




End file.
